The Dandelion in Spring
by peetapov
Summary: A retelling of Mockingjay from Peeta's point of view
1. Chapter 1

I roll over and try to get comfortable, try to quiet the million questions that clamor in my mind and keep me from sleep. If ever I needed my wits about me, it's now. I've been awake since I fully woke on the hovercraft carrying Johanna Mason and I from the arena to the Capitol at President Snow's command. Since I realized Katniss is alive, but in the company of rebels bent on destroying the Capitol. Since I was told she conspired with them to escape, and to leave me behind. The deep, soft bed is endlessly comfortable, but I toss restlessly and stare wide-eyed into the dark.

Once we arrived, we were whisked quickly down a long, richly furnished corridor, past heavy, hand-carved and firmly shut doors. I noticed Enobaria, the tribute from District 2 who was also with us, was taken a different direction entirely, and not shackled as Johanna and I were. I was deposited in a well-appointed room, the door locking audibly behind me. I'd rushed to the windows, but they are barred and held up well against the chair I threw at them. The other door was firmly locked as well and the best I could do was grab a heavy crystal paperweight from a side table and try to conceal it in my hand when the door opened at last.

The uniformed Peacekeeper who entered held an electric prod aimed toward me and I didn't think the armor would even notice if I tried to bash the paperweight at him. Resignedly, I dropped it to the floor and stood warily, waiting for whatever hell he was prepared to visit on me. But I was not ready for what came next.

A tiny, round woman who appeared to travel by bubble bounced into view behind him, all smiles and pink, frothy glitter. She was followed by a pair of tall twins, both with skin dyed ebony black and hair bleached white blond, eyes so dark they seemed to be all pupil. The woman had clutched her hands together and twittered breathlessly what an honor it was to meet me, her greeting echoed by her companions. They were the prep team from District 1, they'd worked with Gloss and Marvel. Their instructions were to clean me up, erase my scars, make me presentable. The guard uncuffed me, but stood at the ready, weapon drawn, to be sure I complied.

It was such a bewildering experience, so completely outside of what I expected, that I didn't resist at all. The bubbly woman was jarringly named Bagda, her team were Sek and Tek, though I couldn't for the life of me tell them apart. They worked with quick efficiency, Bagda chirping that Johanna was "just next door" and being taken care of as well. Disoriented, exhausted, malnourished, and fresh from a catastrophic night of death and loss, I sat numbly while the team scrubbed, primped and massaged, chattering non-stop all the while.

The talk faded into white noise as my befuddled mind tried to adjust, to make sense of what was happening, to be ready for whatever might come next. It wasn't until either Sek or Tek was carefully smoothing my ragged fingernails that I noticed, for all their empty prattling, that not one of them had mentioned the Games even once. The shocking oddity of this drew me up short and I whipped my hand back, staring at the trio with alarm bells clanging in my head. Trembling, Bagda had rushed over and taken my hand, replacing it in the twin's grip, tears beading her lashes.

"Oh, please," she pleaded brokenly, "don't be upset with us. Whatever it is, we'll fix it, we'll make it right, just give us the chance. Oh, please don't tell anyone you're unhappy." Turning to the guard she had gasped a terrified, "We didn't say anything, I swear. Check the tape, please."

"Shut up, you idiot," the guard growled, advancing on her.

"It's fine," I broke in, having no idea what was wrong but my instinct forcing me to defend the petrified and helpless woman. "There's nothing to apologize for, I just wasn't used to how you do it. My team does it differently, that's all."

Bagda had nodded so vigorously her glittering puff of candy floss hair had bobbed forward over her eyes. The guard had backed off, and the treatment continued, albeit more subdued, but I stayed on edge, wondering what in the world I had become entangled with. At the end, I was dressed in soft, light pajamas and brought out to a table laden with a ridiculous amount of amazing food and only one place setting. Left alone, I'd eaten lightly, aware that gorging on rich food after an empty belly was disastrous, and then paced the luxurious cage of a suite I was trapped in until Bagda returned.

I watched her face curiously as she trilled about the wonderful food. She looked somehow different and I couldn't place why, until she turned slightly away from me, gesturing to the bedroom. Her cheekbone was swollen, makeup covering the mark but undeniably puffy. She turned back and caught me staring and the terror that instantaneously flooded her expression made my blood run cold. I'd immediately remarked on how comfortable the bed looked, and how eager I was to drop into it after such an excellent meal. She'd barely held herself back from falling on my neck in gratitude from the look of it, but just nodded, blinking rapidly, and with a wavering smile had crossed to the door and knocked. The guard swung it open for her to leave and she turned quickly to me.

"President Snow invites you to his study tomorrow morning. Rest up." The door swung shut and I stood in the middle of the room silent and alone.

I'd searched the room, rifling through drawers and yanking open closets, but I found nothing, no clues to where I am or why I'm here. I'd been unconscious when taken from the last Games, but this isn't the same. There'd been no victory, no final survivor. Some of us are missing and the arena was blown to pieces. I paced across the polished floor and deep rugs. The need to know what's happening with Katniss is like an itch under my skin. Is she actually safe? Who has her? In desperation, I'd grabbed a deck of cards I'd found in a desk drawer and sat at the table, closing my eyes and breathing deeply. I'd built card houses, one after the other, higher and more complex each time, trying to focus, trying to calm my thoughts. I'll be useless if I panic.

Now, lying in bed, I see the card houses rise and fall over and over before my eyes. Outside the huge windows, the sky glows with a velvety, pink tinged glow. My nerves are strung tight and I feel like I must hum with tension. I assume I'm in the President's mansion, but during our lavish Victors' Ball we were never near a wing that looked like this. The rooms where we changed and cleaned up had windows opening onto a large, green square beneath and a little balcony to step out onto. The hallways had been much shorter as well. I wonder where this one has taken me. The last time I slept without being drugged I'd been on wet sand under a steaming dome with friends watching my back so I wasn't killed in my sleep.

Is "friends" right? One, at least. Where is she now? I know she's alive, I know the Capitol is desperate to get hold of her, but after that I'm utterly clueless. I search my memory of that night. I saw her lifted from the exploding arena in the claw of the hovercraft that retrieves dead tributes and had assumed the worst, but apparently the hovercraft had been commandeered by rebels and they had instead rescued her, along with Finnick Odair, and disappeared with their precious cargo. Strangely, it seems the Capitol knows where they were headed, but for some reason is unable to go and get her. Where could this safe place be? How is it that she ended up there, while I am here, waiting to explain to President Snow what I am unable to understand myself? However it happened, I can only be glad Katniss is safe, for the moment at least away from the deadly grasp of the man who sees her as the greatest threat to his stranglehold on power over the nation.

What must my family think, though? I have no idea how much of that last night made it to television. Probably right up until the lightning bolt hit the tree, I would think. My friends and family would have seen me kill Brutus, my brain flicks quickly away from the image of him hurtling against the force field I threw him into, seen me run back toward the tree where Katniss was calling me, seen me not make it when a fleeing Enobaria and I had collided. Did they see the dome shriek out of invisibility when the lightning lit up the tree? Did they see me thrown back, paralyzed and fading, to watch the arena begin to detonate around me? What do they think happened to me? Where do they think I am?

The sky outside lightens to dawn as I lie silently watching. My father used to help me sleep when I was very little and couldn't turn off my whirling thoughts. I close my eyes and imagine his large, strong hand on my head, stroking through my blond curls and down my back. As he would ask me to do, I think of a happy memory.

Katniss, propped up in bed at one end, me at the other. She concentrates on writing neatly, adding a careful description to the painting of an edible plant I've made under her close direction. The sunlight slanting through the windows on the cold, winter morning. Falling across her face and lighting her dark braid, awakening golden glints, auburn and copper. It's soft glow illuminating her curling lashes and making her storm gray eyes shine like smoked glass.

My father would have me pick a detail to focus on. Her leg resting alongside mine, the tight closeness that connected us, content and busy in this work. How it felt like an invisible tether bound us to each other, complete and together. The warmth of the memory seeps up through my muscles, I let it loosen and relax the tension from my frame and my eyelids begin to droop, heavy and relentless. As I fade into sleep, I feel it still, stretching out into the emptiness. I don't know where it ends, but I feel the connection thrumming between us, as strong as ever.

I wake from a dreamless, heavy sleep, the exhaustion still pulling at me and making my eyes burn. Rolling onto my side, I push myself up to sitting and sag on the edge of the bed, head in my hands. My mouth tastes sharp and awful, my muscles ache from the motionless stupor I was in, and my thoughts move with syrupy slowness, tangling together and bumping off one another. I can't face Snow like this.

Scrubbing my hands over my face, I reach for my prosthetic leg, doing up the straps with quick, familiar precision. A hot shower and thorough tooth brushing bring me closer to feeling human. Replacing the comb in the drawer, I pause and contemplate my reflection. The District 1 team know their business. My hair glints and shines in gilded curls over my polished, smooth skin. My eyes, a startling blue against such bright blond, stare out with piercing intensity. There are no visible scars, no dark circles, my skin glows with health. All traces of the arena have disappeared.

I stand straighter and reconsider. Not all traces. My muscles are still hard and tight, my training before the reaping has defined the work my long hours in the bakery started. The cut across my ribs from Brutus' knife is a light scar, but evident. A bite-mark, high on my hip, is a souvenir from our fight with the monkeys, and four blossom-like burns radiate out across my chest, the Peacekeeper's prod while he questioned me aboard the hovercraft.

It occurs to me that the only marks left on me would only be visible when I'm unclothed. I am the only one who will see these reminders of the brutality of the Games. Intentional? I have no idea, but I wouldn't put it past Snow, a master of mind-games.

Shrugging into my shirt, I dress in the outfit Bagda left out for me. Stylish, not overly formal, but lacking the flamboyancy of typical Capitol dress. A dark, open-front jacket fits snugly over the white V-neck shirt, paired with soft, black pants. Even the clothes carry a weighty message, a subtle nod to Snow's more understated style instead of the garish fashion of the typical citizen. Pairing us together? The effort of trying to decipher the hidden meaning from every single second, trying to be ready for the threat I'm certain will come, is draining. Pitched at this tension for this long has made me jittery and irritable. I pick up the card deck absently and flick the cards back and forth between my fingers, shuffling and riffling the cards like Carney taught me. Just when I think I'll jump out of my skin, Head Peacekeeper Thread swings open the door, armed and ready. I clench my jaw and my chin tilts up. It's time to talk to President Snow.


	2. Chapter 2

I stand quietly in the anteroom while Thread talks to Snow in a low voice on the other side of the door. Dark wood and plush furnishings are uninviting in their formality, the rich carpet beneath my feet absorbing sound so I feel oddly isolated. An intentional tactic, I'm certain.

With a buzzing crackle, the television screen on the far wall pops to life. Chaos. Screaming, churning crowds flee from swooping hoverplanes strafing the melee with firebombs. oHorrified, I take a step forward, my hand reaching out by itself to the mothers trying to shelter their children with their own bodies. Fire roars in the night, flames engulfing homes and businesses, a giant factory belching smoke. District 8 is ablaze.

The screen buzzes and the view changes. Peacekeepers move in orderly lines, marching in wide swaths through the open fields of District 11, firing in sweeping arcs at anyone and everyone in front of them as the citizens run for their lives. My feet carry me closer and my hands begin to shake as I watch people claw over each other to get away, bullets zipping through flesh and screams piercing the air.

Another crackle and the scene is dark jungle, almost silent. "Katniss!" my voice screams, distant and despairing. I place a trembling hand on the screen, Katniss is kneeling next to Beetee, her hand on his shoulder. She watches as, from different angles, Finnick and Enobaria glide forward, hidden in the overgrowth, tense and watchful. Katniss takes something from near Beetee, it's the wire -wrapped knife he tried to stab into the force field. She unwinds the wire and then carefully, deliberately rewraps it around her arrow. Enobaria sees the tree and spins on her heel, sprinting into the jungle. My breath catches in my throat as Katniss stands and lifts her bow, taking careful aim. She lets the arrow fly, her aim true as ever, and the golden thread wings upward as the giant crack of lightning descends and all hell breaks loose. She flies backward to collapse in a heap as explosions boom through the arena, Finnick prone a short distance away. And then, through the hole she created, the hovercraft appears, lowering its claw to retrieve first her and then Finnick, and even Beetee. The screen goes black.

"Wait," I press my hands to the screen, willing her to come back. My whole body is shaking. The terrible scenes of devastation, watching Katniss disable the force field, being thrust back into that night so abruptly with no warning. The prickling behind my eyes becomes hot tears welling up to spill over my cheeks and I bow my head against the screen, squeezing my eyes tightly and clenching my teeth. I hear the door behind me click open softly.

"It's terrible, isn't it?" asks the gentle, low voice of President Snow. He stands behind me, hands clasped behind his back and shaking his head sorrowfully.

I lift my head to stare at him incredulously. "You've done this," I choke out, my trembling finger pointing to the now dark screen. "This is all your doing."

Snow smiles benignly and lifts his hands against the accusation. "My dear boy," he is all reasonable benevolence, "surely you know that for the rebel propaganda that it is? Uprisings are put down, that's how government works. None of these people are unaware of the choices they are making. I didn't wake up on a whim and decide to bomb District 8."

"Which morning did you decide you were alright with forcing children into killing each other for your entertainment?" I ask contemptuously.

He nods slowly, holding my gaze thoughtfully. "Again, a choice forced onto us by guerilla insurgents. Surely you know the histories. All this came in response to rebellion. I wonder what will be the result of this rebellion? What consequence will be visited by the victors on the conquered?"

I feel sick at the barely veiled threat. No matter which side comes out of this triumphant, what will they do to the others for vengeance? The television sparks back to life behind me. I don't turn, but I can hear screaming and explosions.

"Oh dear," Snow clucks his tongue. "It looks like District 3 may be offline for a little while." He smiles into my eyes, a hungry fire burning behind his.

"I don't understand," I say, fighting to keep the pleading from my voice. "It's no good for you either if the districts burn. Why are you letting this happen?"

Snow laughs, a rich, deep sound. "I'm not letting anything happen, my boy. I'm responding to events in the only way possible. What would you have me do? Sit back and let any fanatic group who decides it's time for a coup to overrun the system? To have no consequence for anyone who would take up arms against their government? Believe me, this gives me no joy." And though the light in his eyes says otherwise, there's no point in debating philosophy with him.

"What do you want from me?" I ask.

His gentle grin widens, wolfishly I think, but he puts a pensive finger to his unnaturally puffy lips. The smell from the rose in his lapel is sickly sweet and it pervades the room, like his very presence. Something that should be benign and welcome, instead toxic and repellent.

"You know," he says conversationally, "I appealed to Katniss in the very same way." I stiffen at the reminder that he had been to her home to threaten her before our national tour. "I asked her to help me. To try and control this before it got to this point." He tips his head and studies me for a long moment. "Even knowing the security of the nation was at stake, she was unable to convince the public that she felt any real affection for you. Pity." A shiver runs down my spine, but I will swallow a bushel of nightlock before I let him see it. I lift my chin and meet his gaze steadily, unwavering until his snakelike stare blooms into a slimy smile.

"I think you are the more thoughtful of the two of you," he says, tongue darting out to wet his lips. "I think you have a more complex understanding of exactly what is at stake right now." He shakes his head sadly. "Katniss sees only the romanticism, the thirst for revenge blinds her to reason. You know what this war means for humanity."

"And what does it mean?" I ask.

His smile vanishes and his face is a mask of malevolence. "The end," he says flatly. Icy fingers drift over my skin as I stare into his baleful glare. "I will burn every last one of them. I will level their homes and salt their fields. I will bomb their schools and their hospitals and their refugee camps until there is no one left to stand against me. I will decimate the Earth itself like our ancestors did."

I gape at him, has he snapped completely? He straightens and smooths the front of his jacket. I notice for the first time he is dressed as a mirror to me, white jacket and pants over black shirt. He smiles gently again. "Of course, you can save them all."

"I won't help you," I whisper, appalled.

He chuckles at my horror. "Not me, dear boy. Them." He gestures to the television screen and I turn to see a fleet of hoverplanes darken the sky over District 7. Workers are streaming up the trees like insects, trying to find cover from the deadly barrage raining onto them from above. One plane breaks away, then swings back and fires a missile at the base of one of the trees. It goes up like a rocket flare and shrieking bodies tumble from the flaming branches.

"Please, stop," I murmur. How can he watch this so dispassionately?

"I can't stop until they do," he growls. "And now she's out there, riling them up even more. She thinks if she closes her eyes and believes hard enough, anything is possible." The disgust in his voice is palpable. "But you and I know better. I have all the resources. I have all the manpower. I have all the armories." He watches me steadily, sees the sickness and revulsion I'm unable to hide. "I have all the time in the world. They have sticks and heart. How many more of them will have to give their lives, their children's lives, before they realize how desperately outgunned they are? And in the end, the result will be the same. I will win. The only thing that can change is how many of them will die before I do."

He nods to the television again and I turn, a chill running over my skin at what I might see. It's District 12. Home. Katniss and I are in front of the bakery talking to Prim and my father. Prim grins slyly up at him and my father throws his head back, laughing. Katniss looks chagrined, but he reaches into his apron pocket and hands over a daintily decorated duckling cookie which Prim clutches delightedly. I remember this day so vividly, how peaceful and relaxed we had been. I had no idea we were on camera and I turn to Snow with narrowed eyes.

"How many more will die?" he asks innocently, the threat laid bare before him.

"What would you have me do?" I demand. "We tried to convince them, you saw us. It didn't work. It's so far past that now, what can I do?"

"Everyone thinks she is the one," he says vehemently. "But it's been you all along. She is the symbol, but you are the one that made anyone care about her in the first place. If you hadn't declared your undying devotion in that first interview, she would have been a feisty but forgettable tribute and that would have been that."

His words pound at me, each one hitting like a blow. Have I done this? Have I caused this?

"After you turned her into a symbol of 'love conquering all', everything she did became hallowed, sacred. They watched her with those damn berries as though she were a saint! She was just a coward!" His voice is rising and he clamps his lips together, breathing through his nose to calm himself. "Nothing she did was of any interest except for how it related to you. And then that idiot Seneca Crane-" He looks like he wants to spit on the floor at the mention of the name.

He looks up at me like a beseeching defendant. "What could I do? They saw her move against me with no consequence, rewarded for it even, because of your love for her. And then, you volunteered to go with her again this time. Every person who died in the Reaping Day Riots in Eight can thank you for that." He meets my eyes and I see that he really believes what he's saying. He waves a hand impatiently at my frozen horror.

"It's no use crying over it now," he says dismissively. "Stop them. They will listen to you. They believe in her, but they listen to you. Tell them she did this for her own ends, tell them to stop the fighting. Tell them to stop dying for her!"

His words hang in the air between us. Guilt scrapes through my belly, clawing its way up my throat until I want to scream with it. A shudder runs over me as I face the consequence of my silly act of strategy. I never intended any of this, I only tried to get Katniss back to her sister. Nothing more. But then again, what Snow says is only partially true. If he weren't so oppressive, if the districts weren't so desperate, the spark wouldn't have found a blaze to ignite in the first place. Return to the status quo is out of the question, but I agree with one point. This war will only doom our species forever. We need to find another answer.

I lift my head and he raises an eyebrow at the resolve he finds in my eyes. "You haven't been paying attention," I tell him. "Katniss was the one trying to fake it. There is nothing on this world or any other that will compel me to incriminate her. I will never speak against her," I override his angry protest. "But I do believe we cannot survive this war. I will go on camera," I swallow the spiky knot in my throat at the idea of complying with anything he wants, "and I will ask for a cease-fire. I will do my best to convince the districts that fighting is madness. But that is all I will do."

He shakes his head adamantly. "It's no good without condemning her," he insists. "She must be stripped of her influence, you must show them that you oppose her ideals." He narrows his eyes and lowers his voice to a menacing growl. "If I have somehow given you the impression that you have a choice in this matter, please forgive me. You will do as you're told!" his snarl rings across the room.

"Enough with the empty threats," I fire back, "pretending this is costing you nothing. Every day you are losing ground. Every day you are one step closer to disaster. You need me and you know it, so stop imagining you don't. This is what I will do and if that's not enough, you can execute me and find yourself another puppet!" Momentarily frozen, we stand facing each other, eyes locked and fists clenched. The fury in his gaze I'm certain is matched in mine. And then, he smiles.

"Peeta," he says, the anger draining from his frame. "The things we could do together, you and I." My lip curls at the suggestion and I don't try to hide it, but he only laughs. "You're right," he nods. "I do need you. I'm sure you can calm the rabble." He raises his hands and chuckles when I bristle. "The good citizens of Panem," he amends. "I'm sure you can do it because I'm just as sure you realize they will all die if you don't. For me that means it takes a few days longer to get my fresh orange juice for breakfast. For you it means a lifetime of torturous, guilt-ridden nightmares of children pleading with you not to let them burn. Do not misunderstand. I do need you. But only until I don't."

With that, he turns and leaves the room, closing the door quietly behind him. The television continues to blare its message of death and destruction and I stand in front of it, letting the litany of blame wash over my bowed head and shaking shoulders.


	3. Chapter 3

Back in my quarters, I pace the length of the room over and over. Guilt burns through me, bitter and sharp in my mouth. Of course Snow has more responsibility than he's admitting, but he wasn't entirely lying, either. If I hadn't tried to present Katniss and I as star-crossed lovers, if I hadn't stirred the imagination of the country with that stupid idea, would she never have been set up as the face of the rebellion? Did I do this to her? If she hadn't been trying to save both of us, she never would have poured out those damn berries. I'd be dead in the streambed and she'd be home with Prim right now. I cringe away from this thought, gripping my hands in my hair and squeezing my eyes shut. What have I done? Not only is she lost somewhere, but people are dying by the hundreds, using her defiance as their battle cry. What have I done?

The small television screen at the desk beeps twice and switches on. Warily, I turn toward it and see a nicely appointed room. Rich drapery and a deep table of dark wood lend an aura of refinement. Seated at the table, Bagda seems wildly out of place. Her bright hair and clothes, her darting glance and the fact that her entire body visibly trembles all belie the quiet dignity of the room. As does the Peacekeeper standing on the other side of the table from her. His face is turned away, the camera shoots over his shoulder.

"Your name again?" he asks in a clipped, businesslike tone.

"B-Bagda. Bagda Clouchen," she stutters.

"Not really," he scoffs.

"Afraid so," she trembles, a reply she has clearly made repeatedly through her lifetime. "My father didn't believe in the luxury names District 1 uses, he wanted to make a statement. He went to the other extreme, I think," she smiles tremulously.

"Your father, executed seven years ago?"

She shivers like a leaf in the wind. "Yes," she whispers.

He waves a hand dismissively, "That bears no relevance to what I'm talking to you about today. I want to ask you your job in District 1."

"I'm head of the Tribute Preparation Team. I worked under Levar this year and last. I prepped Marvel and Gloss," she answers with a flicker of pride.

"Have you ever met the tribute Katniss Everdeen?" My full attention snaps to the screen.

"Oh, no," she demurs, "but I saw her once, before the chariots last year."

He shakes his head impatiently. "But you've watched her Games of course. Tell me, what is your impression of her?"

I lean forward slightly, what is this about? "Well," Bagda hedges, plainly trying desperately to come up with the answer he wants to hear. "I felt bad when Johanna turned on her and almost killed her that last night." My breath catches in my throat. Johanna? I know it makes perfect sense, but somehow I can't believe it. Bagda continues, "I guess – I guess – I mean…" her eyes are huge and terrified. "She killed both my boys!" she blurts, and claps a hand across her mouth. "I'm sorry," she squeaks.

"It doesn't matter," the officer waves it off. "What about the boy you worked with yesterday? Peeta Mellark. What do you think of him?"

"Oh, he seems very nice," she says in a rush. "I think he's – um, very nice," she finishes lamely.

The officer turns to someone behind him. "She blames the girl, but not the boy," he notes.

"Who cares?" Head Peacekeeper Thread's growl is instantly recognizable, even from off-camera. "She works in the Capitol, what does it matter what she thinks about them? That's not what we're asking her about."

"Of course, sir." The officer turns back to Bagda, whose eyes have been flying back and forth between them during the exchange. "You've seen the teleplay of the Games, of course?"

"Of course," she nods vigorously. "I always watch all required viewing. I'd even watch it if it wasn't required, you know. To see how my tributes do, you know. I always - "

"Yes, yes, I'm sure," he cuts her off impatiently. "Tell me, in your opinion, did Katniss Everdeen intentionally destroy the arena?"

My breath draws in with a sharp hiss and I watch, unblinking, for her reply.

"Oh, well, I – I couldn't say, of course, but, I mean, it certainly looked like she did. Yes, I think so."

I drop my head and my shoulders sag. I have no idea where this is going, but it's nowhere good.

"Do you believe Haymitch Abernathy prompted her to do it?" My head jerks up.

"Oh, I never… but – I mean he is missing, right?" Missing? Haymitch is gone as well? What the hell is going on? "That certainly looks suspicious, doesn't it?" she asks. It certainly does.

"Thank you, ma'am," the officer turns back to where Thread must be standing. "Is that all, sir?"

"For now. Keep her here. Get her a drink or something, her sweating is making me sick."

The screen snaps off and I stand staring at it blankly. Slowly, I raise my eyes to the barred windows and gaze unseeing at the sky outside my well-furnished prison. If I'm to believe what I just saw, and that's a big "if" since I was obviously meant to see it, Haymitch has vanished. Finnick had Haymitch's bangle. Finnick was taken by the same hovercraft that took Katniss. Finnick and Katniss were working together instantly in the arena, even though she'd adamantly told me she didn't want any allies. She saw him that last night at the tree, after Johanna apparently tried to kill her, but instead of aiming for him, she'd sent her arrow into the force field.

Images begin to flash through my mind. Finnick and Katniss talking so familiarly before the chariot parade. The two of them taking watch together that first night. Joking and laughing on the beach, waking me with ointment covered faces. Her willingness to go with Johanna that last night.

"Enough!" I cry out loud. I shake my head vigorously, trying to dislodge the vision of the two of them heading into the jungle together while Johanna intentionally kept me on the beach. This is exactly what Snow does, it means nothing. I haven't slept or eaten properly while expecting to die at any moment for days. I've been fighting for my life and taking lives myself. I feel like I never left the arena, it's only changed what it looks like. I can't panic and make stupid decisions. Remember what's important. Whatever happened, the only thing that matters is that Katniss stays safe.

The door swings open and Sek and Tek enter behind an armed guard, they're pulling a giant rolling crate filled with equipment to make me camera ready. Both look scared to death.

"Hey, guys," I greet them with a wave and say pointedly, "I was just watching Bagda on television."

"No talk, please," the guard cuts in, lifting his gun between the twins and me. They are visibly relieved, but still nervous, so I don't make it worse for them by defying the ridiculous order. Sitting quietly as they work, I notice so many differences between their methods and my own team's. Granted, they have no interest in me personally, aren't devoted the same way, but other things as well. My hair is more severely formal than Junius would ever have gone for, swept back and the curls tamed. And I can't imagine Selt allowing my fingernails to be gilded, though the makeup is similar to what Lyra would like. Subtle, just covering dark circles and highlighting cheekbones and eyes. It's ridiculous to miss my team whose job was to make me as pretty as possible when I was murdered.

The outfit chosen for me screams Capitol. White on white, a jacket and stiff, stylized collar. Slim white trousers over white boots. With a start, I realize I am wearing the same outfit President Snow was wearing in the tape of the announcement of the 2nd Quarter Quell. I feel sick and grab for the buttons but the guard lifts his weapon and aims at one of the twins.

"Has he chosen poorly for you, sir?"

I freeze. Slowly, I lower my hands. "No, not at all," I assure him. "Just a little tight around the neck."

The guard nods and removes the gun from the twin's rib cage. A slow tear creeps halfway down the midnight black cheek before being wiped hastily away. Clenching my jaw, I walk steadily to the door.

"Are we ready?" I ask. The guard nods politely and gestures me to go in front of him, as naturally as though nothing had happened.

We go back up the long hallway to the anteroom where I had my extremely unpleasant discussion with President Snow this morning. It has been rearranged to accommodate the lights and cameras for the broadcast, and two deep chairs are set together, angled slightly outward. I don't see President Snow anywhere and the guard stands next to me, keeping me corralled in a corner. The door on the opposite wall opens and instead of Snow, Caesar Flickerman walks through, all lavender hair and sparkly suit just as though we were having the Victor's interview as usual. Of course. Snow wants to reassure the nation it's all going to plan, everything is under control. Caesar busies himself with notecards and finishing touches to makeup, he doesn't even make eye contact. I laugh out loud as I realize, he's disappointed in me! I've let him down by not dying bravely like a good little tribute. Sorry, old boy.

I'm led to one of the chairs and a microphone is clipped inside my jacket. A nervous younger man hands me a glass of water and I drain it thirstily. I hand the glass back, thanking him, but my lips feel a weird tingling. I look up questioningly and he smiles an apology.

"Mr. Flickerman thought a nip of liquor might help you relax?"

Fantastic. Trying to loosen my tongue, more likely. I resolve to be alert, but just then I notice Bagda, seated on a plain stool in a corner, looking miserable. It's so odd that she would be here that my suspicion is aroused immediately. After her interrogation today, it does not bode well to have her here, planted very obviously in my line of sight.

Caesar takes his seat, nodding quickly and the cameraman signals the beginning of taping. Caesar watches me for a long moment. "So…Peeta…welcome back." Only a hint of irony. My lips quirk up.

"I bet you thought you'd done your last interview with me, Caesar."

"I confess, I did. The night before the Quarter Quell…well, who ever thought we'd see you again?" He sounds mildly reproachful. I wonder if he's playing for the audience. For Snow?

"It wasn't part of my plan, that's for sure," I say darkly.

At this, Caesar warms up a bit, leaning forward. "I think it was clear to all of us what your plan was," he says, his voice almost nostalgic. "To sacrifice yourself in the arena so that Katniss Everdeen and your child could survive."

Almost right. "That was it. Clear and simple." It did seem simple going in. A vision flashes behind my eyes of Finnick swimming out to me on the pedestal, bangle flashing in the sun. "But other people had plans as well," I mutter.

"Why don't you tell us about that last night in the arena?" Caesar suggests smoothly. "Help us sort a few things out."

I nod slowly. Does he really want to know about that night? Maybe it's time someone really told him. "That last night…to tell you about that last night…well, first of all, you have to imagine how it felt in the arena. It was like being an insect trapped under a bowl filled with steaming air. And all around you," I can feel it creeping up over me, stifling me. "Jungle…green and alive and ticking. That giant clock ticking away your life. Every hour promising some new horror. You have to imagine that in the past two days, sixteen people have died," my voice catches, "some of them defending you. At the rate things are going, the last eight will be dead by morning. Save one. The victor. And your plan is that it won't be you." It's trying to pull me back, trying to swallow me up again.

I pause. I want my father to hear me. I want him to know I'm sorry, that I know what I've done. That I regret what I've done. We've never talked about it because he didn't want to upset me but I want him to know I tried not to give up who I am.

"Once you're in the arena," I go on, "the rest of the world becomes very distant. All the people and things you loved or cared about almost cease to exist. The pink sky and the monsters and the jungle and the tributes who want your blood become your final reality, the only one that ever mattered. As bad as it makes you feel," faces flash behind my eyes, so many faces, "you're going to have to do some killing, because in the arena, you only get one wish. And it's very costly."

"It costs your life," Caesar interposes breathlessly.

I shake my head, I can't look up. "Oh no," I say softly. "It costs a lot more than your life. To murder innocent people?" I cringe inside. I'm so sorry. I lift my eyes miserably to Caesar. "It costs everything you are," I finish hollowly.

" _Everything you are_ ," he echoes softly.

A deep, consuming sadness settles over me as I realize I have paid this price. I have paid it in full. I'm still here, but I'm no longer the same person I was. There's no telling what I'm capable of now. I stare at my hands as though I don't know them. I want everyone in Panem to hear this. To know what they are doing, and causing. They have to know. And I still have my wish.

"So you hold onto your wish," I continue, my voice wobbling. "And that night, yes, my wish was to save Katniss. But even without knowing about the rebels, it didn't feel right. Everything was too complicated. I found myself regretting I hadn't run off with her earlier in the day, as she had suggested. But there was no getting out of it at that point."

"You were too caught up in Beetee's plan to electrify the salt lake," Caesar prompts.

I shake my head, agitation bristling over my skin. "Too busy playing allies with the others," I grind out. "I should have never let them separate us!" The words are ripped from me, anguish and regret washing over me. "That's when I lost her," I admit wretchedly.

"When you stayed at the lightning tree, and she and Johanna Mason took the coil of wire down to the water," he reminds the audience.

"I didn't want to," I choke. "But I couldn't argue with Beetee without indicating we were about to break away from the alliance." The memories are too fresh, too painful. Too guilty. "When that wire was cut, everything just went insane." I see that night in flashes, colored with dread and anxiety and misery. "I can only remember bits and pieces. Trying to find her. Watching Brutus kill Chaff. Killing Brutus myself. I know she was calling my name. Then the lightning bolt hit the tree," an alarm in my head pulls me back from the empty-eyed recitation of horror. Careful. "And the force field around the arena…blew out."

"Katniss blew it out, Peeta," Caesar interjects. "You've seen the footage."

"She didn't know what she was doing," I insist emphatically. "None of us could follow Beetee's plan. You can see her trying to figure out what to do with that wire." I see her in that jungle. Taking such careful aim.

"All right, it just looks suspicious," Caesar says with a conciliatory shrug. "As if she was a part of the rebels' plan all along."

I leap toward him, towering over him in his seat. Shocking myself with my vehemence. "Really?" I demand. "And was it part of her plan for Johanna to nearly kill her? For that electric shock to paralyze her? To trigger the bombing?" I'm shouting into his face, and I can hear myself trying to smother my own doubts as well. "She didn't know, Caesar! Neither of us knew anything except that we were trying to keep each other alive!"

"Okay, Peeta. I believe you." Caesar has his hands on my chest, his voice soothing as though talking to child having a tantrum. What is happening to me?

"Okay," I murmur faintly, running trembling hands through my hair, trying to calm my breathing. I sag into my chair, focus. Focus. Focus. Caesar is watching me warily.

"What about your mentor, Haymitch Abernathy?"

I feel my jaw tighten and my fists clench on their own. "I don't know what Haymitch knew," I answer with complete honesty.

"Could he have been part of the conspiracy?" Caesar wheedles.

"He never mentioned it," I say flatly.

"What does your heart tell you?"

"That I shouldn't have trusted him." The bitter words are out before I even think about it. "That's all," I say. I don't want to discuss this with the weasely, primped and fobbish vulture hungering for little nuggets of my misery to gnaw over, like marrow from a bone. Where is this aggression coming from? I take a deep breath, trying to concentrate. I feel like my skin is too tight, like a buzzing in the back of my brain is trying to drill right through me.

"We can stop now if you want," Caesar offers condescendingly.

I snort derisively. What more can they pry out of me? "Was there more to discuss?" I ask dryly.

"I was going to ask your thoughts on the war, but if you're too upset…"

Of course, the entire reason I agreed to this. "Oh, I'm not too upset to answer that," I reply quickly. I take a calming breath, gathering my senses, and look directly to the camera lens. "I want everyone watching – whether you're on the Capitol or the rebel side – to stop for just a moment and think about what this war could mean. For human beings. We almost went extinct fighting one another before. Now our numbers are even fewer. Our conditions more tenuous." I'm leaning forward, my eyes locked on the lens. "Is this really what we want to do? Kill ourselves off completely? In the hopes that – what? Some decent species will inherit the smoking remains of the earth?"

Caesar watches me, baffled by my intensity. "I don't really…I'm not sure I'm following…"

"We can't fight one another, Caesar. There won't be enough of us left to keep going. If everybody doesn't lay down their weapons – and I mean, as in _very soon_ – it's all over anyway." I slump back in my chair, the hopelessness of it draining me all of a sudden. So much death, so much loss. For what?

"So…you're calling for a cease-fire?" he asks incredulously.

"Yes. I'm calling for a cease-fire." I'm done here. "Now why don't we ask the guards to take me back to my quarters so I can build another hundred card houses?"

Caesar only misses a half-beat before turning a glittering smile to the camera. "All right. I think that wraps it up. So back to our regularly scheduled programming." The green light on the lens clicks to red and I'm on my feet, ignoring Caesar's outstretched hand. Bagda is gone, but my guard is at my elbow immediately. I don't even care, I just want to be out of this place. I follow the guard back down the impossibly long hallway to my room. My head's a mess, I need to sleep more than anything, I think.

Once inside, I slump on the arm of the overstuffed sofa, focusing on the quiet and the dark. To my chagrin the screen beeps and pops to life. Do I really need to relive that now? But it isn't me or Caesar on the screen. It's Bagda, only not in the austere study. She's standing against a plain, white wall, chin trembling heartbreakingly. She is facing President Snow.

"Did you enjoy watching the interview?" he asks her in a kind, low voice.

Shaking like a jelly, she nods, eyes huge.

"Tell me, dear lady. After listening to Mr. Mellark, do you still believe Katniss Everdeen meant to destroy the arena?"

I take a step closer to the screen, apprehension bubbling up in my chest. Bagda swallows hard, licks dry lips, and her head shakes ever so slightly back and forth.

"No," I whisper, taking another step closer.

"He seems so positive," she manages. "I guess it could have been an accident."

"No!" I cry as the guard steps forward, pistol in hand. Snow turns and looks at the camera, his snakelike glare blaming me for this.

The guard lifts the muzzle to her temple and fires.

"NO!"


	4. Chapter 4

Moving slowly so I don't jostle my rib, I ease my position against the corner wall. My torn shoulder screams in protest, but now I can hear scraping down the hallway and that means my door will swing open soon. I will either face an emotionless guard with a bowl of watery grain, or two armored Peacekeepers with various blunt, heavy objects and an excited gleam in their eyes. I can't find a pattern to which happens when, I think that's part of the strategy. Just like the intermittent screaming I hear from next door.

This past week Johanna has screamed herself raw between the heavy thuds, crackling shocks and shouted questions about how much she knew about the rebel plans. The intervals when they are questioning me are nightmarish, but when they are next door is unendurable. The first few days I screamed back, clawing at the walls, demanding they leave her alone, swearing she knew nothing and making up answers to their questions. Until I realized they made it worse for her when I reacted. Since then I wrap my head in my arms and bite on a fistful of my shirt, squeezing my eyes shut and shaking until they leave and her quiet sobbing is the only sound in the otherwise silent hall.

The beeping keypad sends a tremor through my legs and I ball my fists together in my lap, nails cutting into my palms. I hate it when I can't stop them from seeing my fear. The door squeals open and I almost burst into tears. A small, metal bowl comes sliding toward me and the door slams shut again. My hands are shaking uncontrollably and I press them against my eyes, tears of relief creeping down my face and my breath coming in ragged gasps.

I think it's only been a week. A week since I was interviewed by Caesar Flickerman and defied President Snow by refusing to implicate Katniss in the rebel plans. A week since he used that against me by forcing me to watch him murder Bagda in cold blood. A week since the door to my suite burst open and four guards grabbed me as I snarled and flailed and screamed until they jammed a needle in my shoulder and everything went black. A week since I woke up here. Cold and white, there is nothing in the room except for a bucket in the corner and several latches set into the walls at various points where they manacle me when they don't feel like beating me curled up on the floor. A week since I made the fatal error of letting them find out they got much more reaction from me when they turned their attentions to Johanna instead of me.

I think I've slept maybe three or four hours total per night in that week, though never all at once. They like to blare siren noises, or dash cold water, or start in on Johanna whenever I've been asleep for too long. I can't break down like this, though. They like nothing better. Taking a deep, shuddering breath, I pick up the bowl and lift it to my cracked lips. I smile determinedly at the memory of two nights ago when, exhausted, I slept right through the bucket of icy water dumped over me and the guard had grumpily kicked me awake instead with the definite air of someone whose fun has been ruined.

My smile fades as I finish the meager meal and stare blankly at the empty bowl. For the millionth time, I clutch at the only thought that gives me comfort. They wouldn't be trying to beat information out of us if they didn't need it. They don't have Katniss. I close my eyes and breathe yet another silent thank you out into the world, hoping it finds its way to whoever is keeping her safe.

I cross my arms on my pulled up knees and rest my head on them. I let my mind wander back until it finds a safe place to light. The cave, in the first arena. After our rich meal delivered by parachute, Katniss had been sleeping while I kept watch, bundled close in the sleeping bag together. She had murmured my name in her sleep and I'd thought I would burst with the joy of it. Even now, I feel the warm glow surge up through my belly and spread out across my skin, bringing a smile blooming across my face. In this misery, I hoard these precious memories, and they give me the strength to cling to what is left of who I really am. Because of them, I won't lose the real me. Basking in the comfort of this thought, I drift fitfully into whatever restless sleep they will allow me this time.

"Peeta!" The despairing screech jolts me awake and I leap to my feet. "Peeta! Please!"

"Mom?" I beat against the door frantically. "Mom!"

"Peeta!" Her voice is choked with sobs and terror. A loud thump and she screams, pleading. "Peeta! Please, just tell them! Please!" My mother is crying uncontrollably, somewhere close.

I howl and beat on the door, screaming I don't know what threats and curses. And then, my blood turns to ice and my heart shatters. The new voice, deep and familiar and wracked with pain. "Peeta! Peeta, I'm sorry." I feel myself turning inside out with the helpless anguish. I'm paralyzed by the sound of my parents' pain, unreachable, just on the other side of the door. Because of me. For long minutes, I listen helplessly, afraid I might actually lose my grip on sanity. And then, "Son, please, just tell them. Make them stop," my father cries brokenly.

I slide to the floor, shaking with relief. My body spasms and my face pulls into a grimace with the release of tension, but terrified by the closeness of the tragedy. Of course that isn't my father. No matter what they did to him, my father would never betray me like that. Never.

The jabberjays, from the arena. They've had these recordings cued up and ready, just waiting to spring on me. I think of Katniss and Finnick, cowering away from the screams for help for the entire hour while locked in that wedge of jungle. I concentrate on my memory of Katniss in my arms, staring so hungrily into my eyes for reassurance. Trusting me and finding comfort in my words. I calm myself with the memory of protecting her.

The cries go on for about twenty minutes, but it no longer bothers me. They've lost their power over me, and aware of it, the voices cut out with an audible snap. The silence echoes strangely for a few minutes, and then I hear the scraping down the hall. My stomach knots in fear of the pain to come, but I push myself up against the wall and stand. When the door swings open I grin defiantly at the Peacekeepers there, the one in front scowling at me as though I've broken his favorite toy.

My ears are still ringing after they've left, and I think I may have passed out for a minute while the snarling guard was pummeling me. They'd locked my arms over my head and used their fists, a sign of how angry they were. They've left me shackled to the wall and my shoulder screams with the pain of it. I try to support myself with my leg, so I'm not sagging on my wrists and arms, but it only works about half the time. They threw my prosthetic across the room and something is wrong with my knee. I feel the cold creep of blood down my chin from the parting blow. My own fault really. After he'd torn my prosthetic off and tossed it, I'd laughed, "Still faster than you," at the guard.

I jerk my head up at the sound of the keypad. They're coming back? The door swings open and President Snow steps inside, his nose wrinkling disdainfully at the smell. He glances around at the cell before ever making eye contact with me. I haven't seen him since the interview and I'm surprised by the change in him.

There are deep lines etching his face I don't remember from before, and he looks like he's lost weight. His eyes are exhausted. Good.

I stand quietly, chin up but jaw locked, forcing my leg to support me without shaking. His eyes meet mine with cool assessment, drilling in and searching for cracks to worm into. I stare back calmly, drawing on the memory of my father's screams to counter his gaze with the same relentlessness.

"It reeks in here," he says without turning around. A guard materializes from behind him, whisking away the offending bucket and disappearing again. "Don't let it get like that again," he says distastefully. "It's bad enough I have to come down here in the first place." I snort derisively and he lifts an eyebrow. "Are you still with us? I worried the crying meant we'd lost you."

I feel a flush begin to heat my face and I fight it off by willpower alone. "Still here," I reply, rattling my manacles. "Is this how you keep women, too?"

"Just the one," he smiles indulgently. "Well, two." His smile widens as I feel the blood drain from my face. "Perhaps you know her? Annie Cresta?"

I'm repulsed by the rush of relief I feel that it isn't Katniss and his wide grin confirms he knows it. "We thought Mr. Odair might worry about her so we brought her in." My lip curls scornfully and I rest my head against the wall behind me, not deigning to reply. He chuckles lightly. "I must try to remember that you are so different from Katniss," he says with a sigh.

"Not so different," I murmur, eyes closed. Though he's right. That comment would have had her screaming and bucking against the manacles. I smile to think of her lightning temper, the fiercely narrow focus of her protectiveness.

Snow turns and speaks through the doorway. "I see no change."

Really? I lift my head to see a smallish man in round glasses and a rumpled tunic over even more wrinkled pants. His absent-minded air reminds me of someone as he approaches gingerly to peer into my face. He tips his head back and examines me from under his glasses.

"Beetee!" I exclaim, and he visibly flinches.

"My uncle," he mutters, clearly uncomfortable at the connection to the rebel outlaw. "I barely knew him."

"Oh, don't worry," I reassure him. "They took him with Katniss and Finnick. Plenty of time for him to find out you torture prisoners." I'm intrigued by the tremor that passes through his hands, and that he clearly hopes Snow didn't see it. I stop trying to put on a brave front and just shut up and listen.

"Well?" Snow demands impatiently.

"The dose was very small," the man says, staring into my eyes. My stomach clenches, dose? "He did seem more aggressive than I expect from him, based on past performance. But he'd left the arena hours before, his wife and child were missing, the situation warranted it."

"But what about now?" Snow presses. "You said he would develop negative associations."

"Like I said, the dose was very small. We didn't know what would happen, we didn't want him to tip into a murderous rage when Flickerman prompted him to remember the arena. And it had to pass unnoticed in the water."

I freeze, my mind reaching back to the interview. The drink of water that made my lips tingle. "What did you do?" I demand, and Snow laughs, that smug, arrogant laugh that says he knows he holds all the cards.

"It's very intriguing," he tells me chattily. "We added the smallest amount of tracker jacker venom to your drink that night. Then, when Caesar asked you to recall the night in the arena, your memories were brought forward, tinged with the fear and aggression from the venom, and then stored that way forever. Now, whenever you think of that night, you will be fearful and angry. Ingenious, isn't it?" He looks delighted with himself, and almost like he expects me to match his enthusiasm.

"Yeah," I mutter drily. "I feel angry and fearful when I think of the arena. How much did that cost you?" But inside I feel a tremor beginning in my belly. I did feel out of control that night, overly aggressive and so hateful toward Caesar. Can they do that? Change how I perceive the past? I shudder. That would be diabolical.

"He has a point," the other man says. "Maybe it wasn't different enough to see any change? Or just too small of a dose? We'll need more tests to know for sure."

Snow shakes his head. "Not yet. I don't want ruin him while I can still use him. Let's stay with our traditional approach for now. Does he know the mad girl at all? Would he respond if we visited her?" I feel sick and fight to hide it, determined to give them no cause to go to Annie.

"Mmmm... maybe," the man considers. "He doesn't know her personally, but he scores very high in empathy and protective instinct. She's so precarious, we may lose her if we push at all. We can count on him reacting to almost anyone, though. In fact, I'm willing to wager it would be worse with a stranger when he knows it's through no fault of their own and rather is because of him."

I'm unable to control it this time. I throw myself against the chains, screaming and cursing them, howling my fury. Snow turns away, unmoved. "Interesting. Do we still have the redheads?"


	5. Chapter 5

Three more days pass with numbing monotony. I think it's three days. I'm guessing they feed me once a day and I've had three bowls of sludge, but no beatings. Instead of feeling relieved, I'm pitched to feverish anxiety in anticipation of what's to come. Johanna and I tried talking to each other the first night I was here, but the retribution for her had been so swift and so brutal I quickly gave that up. She's tried again a few times, but they punish only her when we speak so I ignore it determinedly. After the conversation between Snow and the other man, I've come to think of him as simply Nephew, I've been frantically trying to figure out what they want from me. They must know I had no idea about the rebellion, most of their questions are superficial, and sometimes they don't even ask anything. Why would they be messing with my memories of the arena? What could that gain for them? Why have they stopped beating me at all? Snow said he can use me still, what did that mean?

The questions echo and reverberate in the empty room, growing in scope until I bury my head in my arms to try and escape. Once, when I was small and very sick, I was confined to the room I shared with Jasper. My mother strictly forbade anyone to break my quarantine, the doctor having warned her I was extremely contagious. Jasper, however, made it a point to sneak in through the outside window several times every day to visit me. He said it wasn't healthy for people to be left all alone, and I would heal more quickly if I weren't fighting the despair of isolation as well. I squeeze my eyes tightly closed and wish I could talk to him again. Just a few minutes, some news of home, plans for the wedding.

I grip my hands behind my neck. I hope they go through with the wedding. Is it this week? Last week? They had threatened to call it off after the announcement of the Quarter Quell, but I'd made them promise to keep to their plans. Nothing would please me more than to know of Jasper and Lila starting their lives together, to think of them holding each other and keeping each other happy. I hope they keep their promise, I have enough shattered dreams to answer for.

I keep wondering what they thought of my interview. Is my father disappointed in me? Does he think I'm a traitor? Or does he agree with me? He can't have seen the terror and destruction happening in the other districts, but before I left I had explained about the uprisings, and he was far more supportive of the rebel cause than I'd have anticipated.

As always, my jaw clenches when I wonder for the millionth time what Katniss thinks. Does she understand how devastating it is out there? Whoever she's with, would they have shown her the magnitude of the loss, the complete destruction of our existence that looms on the horizon? Does she hate me for what I said? Even if she does, I comfort myself knowing that when I lie calmly in the dark, when my heartbeat slows and my breathing is deep and steady, I can feel her out there. I can feel the connection between us and I draw my strength from it.

"Be safe," I whisper.

I hear the scraping down the hall and lift my head quickly. It's too early to eat again, nothing good can come of this. I hear a grunt from the other side of the wall. Johanna has not been beaten either and I can feel the tension radiate through the cell, which of us are they coming for? The keypad beeps outside my door and I don't know whether to feel afraid or relieved. When the hinges squeal open, I settle quickly on confused. Only one guard faces me, and he holds manacles and a prod. He tosses the manacles to me and orders me to shackle myself. My raised eyebrow is my answer and he grins slyly. Two more guards swarm inside and make rough work of binding my wrists and ankles, the original one getting in a few solid zaps with the prod for good measure.

They grab me by the elbows and guide me out the door into the hallway. I stare around in bewilderment, I've never seen outside the cell. The guards hustle me along, but I see there are at least three more cells like mine. At two, guards stand in the open doors as we go by. In one I see the curled back of Johanna Mason. She lies on her side on the floor, facing away, huddled in the fetal position. In another, a beautiful, red-haired girl stares wide-eyed as I go by, trembling hands held to her mouth, head shaking slowly back and forth.

I'm led through a swinging door into a room unlike any I've ever seen. It's empty except for a straight backed chair in the center and the guards shove me into it, buckling my chains into attached straps. My heart sinks wondering what could be coming, but I clench my jaw and keep my face as impassive as possible. The guards leave without a word and my anxiety pitches higher. I notice the front and sides of the room are actually a curtain, or a screen? It's difficult to tell, but as I try to work it out, the light flashes on and I turn my head from the glare, squeezing my eyes shut.

When I open them again, I blink rapidly, trying to clear the spots dancing in my vision until I see the room has opened out in front of me, or appears to have. A table, tilted about thirty degrees, is in the new room and a man in a tunic like Nephew's is fiddling with knobs on a machine next to it. Dread floods my bloodstream, what is happening? A door opens and another man in a tunic leads in a girl, about my age, with coppery red hair and huge eyes. She sees me and a tremor shakes her whole body. The first man turns from his work and asks, "Is it Lavinia?"

She nods tearfully and I recognize her. She is filthy and woefully thin, but undeniably she is the avox girl who was our servant in the Training Center.

"Lavinia, do you know the person seated behind the glass?" he asks her blandly. She freezes for a second, trying to find the trap. Of course she does, everyone in the nation knows me, even if they hadn't been handpicked personal servants.

"Answer!" the second man barks, giving her a rough shake. She nods rapidly, blinking back tears.

"Were you aware of him plotting treason against your President while you knew him?" the first man asks, his tone still flat, but Lavinia shakes her head vigorously, desperate sounds of fear coming from her mutilated mouth.

"She denies it," the second man smiles. "I was hoping she would."

"Hang on," the first one grumbles. "I can't work out the voltage."

Lavinia's knees give out and she sags in the hands of her captor, trembling and making terrible noises. With a disgusted snort, he heaves her against the table and holds her down while the first one straps her in. Nephew's words echo in my ears and I try desperately to remain impassive, hoping against hope they'll let her off easier if it doesn't seem to be bothering me. She turns her head and looks at me through the glass. Our eyes meet and hers are bottomless pools of despair and terror.

"I'm sorry," I mouth silently. She shakes with silent weeping, but her sobs are suddenly cut off as her body arches up away from the table and a crackling sizzle zips through the air. I scream and pull at the restraints of my chair as her rigid back and clenched muscles jerk and thrash. The man curses and flips a switch back and she goes limp, twitching and jittering, but loose in the restraints. I sag back in my own chair as the man swears, glowering with disgust at the curl of smoke rising from her body. I hang my head and sob openly for the avox in the woods.

Back in my cell, I curl into myself on the floor. Trying to block out the fear in Lavinia's eyes as she realized what was about to happen. That she had no way to stop it because there was no answer that could satisfy them. She was being used as nothing more than a display of power to try and manipulate me. My fists press against my eyes and my clenched teeth are bared in a fierce grimace. I burrow into the corner, trying to hide as much as I can from their prying eyes, but knowing they see my despair. They know they have won.

The next time the door opens, I sit against the wall, hands curled and empty at my sides, staring dully ahead. For the first time, they let me sleep a full night through. Another cruel ploy. Exhausted to the point of collapse, my body never pulled me away from the dreams where Lavinia jerked against the restraints, screamed for me to help her, to make it stop. Dreams where Katniss flew away and left me, alone and crying out for her return. Dreams where my family is tortured and mutilated for the sin of knowing me.

The guard doesn't even try to get me to cuff myself, coming in and quickly clipping cold metal around my unresisting hands and feet. He hauls me to my feet and I shuffle along where he guides me, into the echoing hall. The two cell doors are open again, today Johanna is sitting against the wall, knees drawn up but head turned away. She has several bald patches where it looks like they've shaved her hair. The skin showing through looks burned and raw. Annie stands as before, but her trembling hands are covering her eyes and she shakes with sobs.

I notice these things absently, my clouded mind is so slow to piece things together. Until I realize where we're going. The door to the room swings open and I see the chair with its biting restraints and the long curtain in front.

"No, no, wait!" I cry, backpedaling furiously against the grip of the guard. My bare feet can't find purchase on the slick floor and the manacles do their job well, restricting my movement so I can't swing at him, can't kick or run. He drags me to the chair and another guard buckles me in. "No, no, no." I'm rocking against the restraints, my head swinging back and forth. Not again, please not again.

The flash, blinding me as the lights pop on, and there's the table. Today, the victim is already strapped down and my stomach knots in wretched misery. Darius. Of course, "the redheads," Snow had said. Darius has two black eyes in a swollen and battered face and his shirtless chest shows fresh lashes criss-crossing the flesh. Cuts and bruises cover his body, and he hunches slightly toward his right side. The man in the tunic is standing back and to the side, a Peacekeeper looms over the table, a short, heavy club in his hand.

"When did Peeta Mellark confer with the rebel leaders?" he asks in a monotone. Darius shakes his head silently and the guard slams his jaw with the club, Darius' head jerking to the side. "When did Peeta Mellark confer with the rebel leaders?" Again, the silent denial and the brutal crack of the club. Darius spits a stream of blood and a tooth clatters to the floor.

"Stop!" I howl. "He doesn't know anything! I don't know anything!" But they don't even look toward me. I don't know if he can hear me at all. "Sto-" My voice freezes in my throat as the guard turns to the man in the tunic, who hands him a wicked looking tool with large, curved snipping blades. The guard lifts Darius' hand and pries free his two middle fingers from his clenched fist. Darius, eyes wild with fear, is wailing like a caged animal, his brutalized mouth incapable of giving the answers he doesn't have anyway. The guard repeats his question and Darius repeats his frantic denial.

At Darius' scream I turn and vomit violently onto the floor. His choking sobs sear through me and I retch again, heaving myself empty of the little my stomach had to offer. The glass blanks in front of me, but I can still hear Darius moaning and choking.

A shift in the light and the glass is a screen, Katniss frowning down at me from high in a tree. The sound of Darius gagging and crying overlays images of Katniss flashing across the screen. I shudder in my restraints, the chains clanking and ringing with the violence of my tremors. Katniss lifts her arrow and fires into the sky, trailing the golden wire. The sky explodes and the screen goes blank. Darius sobs in muffled agony, out of sight. I weep along with him.


	6. Chapter 6

The next days are a torment of impotent anguish as the Peacekeepers slowly beat and mutilate Darius to death, demanding answers he doesn't have to questions they don't care about. Sometimes they just play the audio into my cell, his muffled screams of agony and despair between their dull questions about who knew what. Sometimes they haul me into the other room and I watch, screaming myself raw and rubbing bloody welts into my skin where I pull against the manacles.

When I'm in my cell I lie curled on my side, head buried in my arms. I haven't eaten since the day they snipped his fingers from his hand, and they beat me whenever they come to collect the bowl and it's untouched. If they are going to hurt others to get to me, I'm removing myself from the equation.

The time blurs into nightmarish waking hours filled with pain and horror, and terrifying sleeping hours filled with pleading and blame. They've resumed their pointless beatings. Sometimes asking questions, sometimes just hurting me for the joy of it. As my body grows weaker, my mind becomes fuzzier. I begin to hallucinate and I have trouble separating reality from dream. But it doesn't matter, really. Each is equally horrible. I'm huddled in the corner, eyes squeezed shut, whispering apologies into the nothingness to drown out Darius' keening wail when it rises to a high pitched shriek and then gurgles into silence. I freeze, listening carefully and hear a muttered, "Dammit." My hands begin to tremble and tears creep down my face. Finally.

My next two meals are force fed, guards holding me down while one of the men in tunics shoves a tube down my throat. It's a lot of work, and I'm pretty sure I can outlast them. Like with Darius, they'll become impatient and overdo it. I wait.

The next time the guards come in however, Johanna begins to scream. "Eat, Peeta! Eat it! Just eat!" Immediately, I can hear the guards descend on her cell and begin to rain blows and she grunts and shrieks as they land, but she continues to holler, "Eat, Peeta! Eat eat eat!" Her cries grow louder as the crunches and thumps increase until I can't stand it any longer.

"I'll eat! Shut up, Johanna! I'll eat!" She quiets immediately and the beating stops quickly after. I cradle my head in my hands, but when the bowl scrapes the floor next to me, I raise it to my cracked and broken lips.

I don't know how much time has passed, I lost track of the bowls and the beatings and the dreams. It doesn't matter how long it's been anyway, every day is the same, and always will be the same. I don't know what is being gained by this, no new information for them. What do they want? Why are they doing this? What are they waiting for?

And then one day is different. Nephew steps inside my cell, flanked by two guards and looking nervous. I watch him warily, he looks scared, like he's confronting a cornered animal.

"Hello, Peeta," he says softly. I don't answer, waiting for whatever awful thing he brings with him. "I know you've been alone for a long time. I told President Snow you would probably like to talk to someone." His lie stinks like his fear, but I don't call him on it. I wait.

He tries again. "You must be wondering about what's happening to you. President Snow said I can tell you what we know." I roll over away from him and close my eyes. Lies are of no interest to me. He continues doggedly. "Katniss has been working with the insurgency. They worked out a plan for her escape from the arena with the help of a handful of traitors and she is now working to bring one of them to power. We needed to be sure you weren't a spy, needed to be sure you were completely unaware of her plotting, but recently we've become certain she acted without you." His words are empty echoes, I only hear noise. "Perhaps you'd like to see?" he asks.

My attention snaps to him. See Katniss? I hate myself for how eagerly I turn, how hungry I'm sure I look. He places a small screen on the floor in front of me and it crackles to life. There she is. Tears pool in my eyes and spill over, my hands trembling at my sides. She stands in front of a huge crowd at the Justice Building in District 9, I recognize it from when we visited on the Victory Tour. She looks so different, eyes lined dramatically and a dark lipstick making her look older. She speaks firmly and clearly, asking the district to take up arms, calling for them to fight to the death for their liberty. I watch, my breath frozen in my throat, drinking her in. Swimming its way through my murky consciousness, a buzzing doubt drifts in and out of my focus. Katniss has never been such a comfortable speaker as she is now. But apparently, I didn't know her as well as I thought I did, maybe all that shyness in front of crowds was an act. My brow wrinkles, my befuddled mind trying to put pieces together. In the third row is the woman who drew my attention on the tour, her anger radiating from her. But this isn't the same crowd, is it? Katniss wasn't wearing black in District 9. And she certainly wasn't talking about arming themselves against the Capitol.

Nephew sees my questioning stare and clicks off the screen. "Like I said, she's inciting riots out there right now. People are dying by the hundreds because she doesn't understand what's happening. She thinks she's asking people to fight for their freedom, when actually," he leans close and stares into my eyes intensely, "she is just a puppet for another power player who is trying to seize control for themselves." I shake my head, trying to follow what he's saying. Yesterday, I was knocked unconscious by the heavy metal end of the club swung at my head and my thoughts still won't line up properly.

"Who?" I mumble.

"Plutarch Heavensbee," Nephew replies dramatically.

"Pfft, Plutarch?" I shake my head, my vision swimming and fading. "He designed the Games specifically to kill her."

"No," Nephew replies, voice low and serious. "He designed the Games specifically to free her."

My head aches with the effort of trying to think about what he's saying. Plutarch as the mastermind of her escape? It doesn't even make sense. But, on the other hand, it kind of does. He was in the perfect position to monitor her in the arena, what better way to keep her safe? What better way to know where she was every minute of every day, and be able to meet her when the time was right? My syrupy thoughts struggle with reasoning this through, and then a blinding clarity.

The entire time we were on tour, she'd been so worried, so anxiety ridden. But suddenly, at the President's mansion, she had become carefree and light-hearted. I see her in my memory, Plutarch cutting in and sweeping her away to dance and talk to her privately. Holding her in my arms that night as she slept for the first time with no nightmares.

"What?" I ask Nephew, and he nods to someone behind me. A sharp pinch in my arm and I flinch away to look down at a tiny pinprick in my bicep. "What?" I ask again, my brain refusing to function correctly in its damaged and deprived state.

I feel my heart beginning to speed up, my muscles tighten and my breathing becomes ragged. I feel a nameless panic starting in the back of my skull and worming its way through my bloodstream into my chest and belly.

Nephew leans forward and asks, "What happened that last night in the arena, Peeta?"

A vision of Brutus looms in front of me, bursting from the wall behind Nephew. He roars and swings his glinting knife at my head while the wall snaps and crackles with electricity. Chaff, dragging himself on his forearms, screaming and covered in biting, tearing insects, reaches for me. I cower against the wall, covering my head and trying to claw my way away from them.

"Katniss blew out the force field," Nephew's voice rings through my head and I peer through my arms. On the screen Katniss stands and takes careful aim. Her arrow lowers and she turns toward me with a malicious smile, the arrow on fire and its blazing light throwing sinister shadows on the planes of her face. She releases it to fly toward me, piercing my heart. Screaming, I tumble backward, ripping at the burning shaft, my hands and clothes catching fire as she stands over me and laughs.

"I think we're good," Nephew says, his head elongating and fangs showing over his lower lip. He leaps for me, clawed hands tearing at my face and I kick backward, flying over and my head smashing against the floor. The room wheels around me, blooming with flame and smoke, and then blackness.

When I wake, I'm alone. My head is pounding and my entire body is covered with clawed scratches. My fingernails are caked with blood, I've been tearing at myself. My heart pounds and I can't catch my breath. Clutching my head, I squeeze my eyes shut, try to calm myself. I pull deep, slow breaths, try to find the tether in my mind that reaches out to connect me to Katniss. As I search, my heart races faster and I feel queasy. I shy away from thoughts of her and my father's image floats into my mind's eye. Calm and steady, comforting and loved, I focus on the detail of his hands. His large, strong hands pounding and kneading at silky dough as we work side by side at the tall bench. The square nails he keeps so meticulously clean and trimmed. The way his thumb, like mine, bends back at the top knuckle. When he runs his hands over my head, stroking my hair and soothing me when I'm sad or afraid. The way he cupped the back of my head and peered into my eyes, our bright blue gazes mirroring each other's as he told me he loved me before I left.

My breathing begins to slow and I roll onto my back, arms thrown wide at my sides. I stare at the ceiling, trying to make sense of what has happened. I can't remember anything clearly, but I think Nephew was here? I think Brutus was here, too, so that isn't a sure thing. I also think I saw Katniss, but when I try to think about either of them, my mind skitters and shies away from it.

I pull myself to sitting, leaning against the wall with my legs drawn up. I press my fingers to my eyes, trying to get control of my thoughts. I remember Nephew, coming in and trying to start a conversation. Was he telling me about Katniss speaking at rallies? Something about that had rung false, but I can't remember what it was. He had shown me video of it, I saw it happening. Why didn't I believe it? I don't remember.

He also told me that Plutarch Heavensbee is the rebel leader trying to wrest control for himself. I had put the news together with Katniss' sudden mood change the night she met with him and then…what? None of it makes sense, there are holes in my memory and parts where my mind refuses to go. It's like a locked door, or a black pit. What is happening? Maybe the blows to my head are damaging my ability to concentrate, to reason. I shudder at the idea.

I spend the day trying to make sense of the chaos in my mind. Nothing fits together though and the more frustrated I get, the more tumultuous my thoughts become. My head jerks up at the sound of the keypad outside the door, my stomach tightening in knots of fear at the thought of what's to come. But instead of the uniformed Peacekeepers, it's Nephew again. He smiles a greeting and walks inside. He is much more confident today, peering into my eyes, checking my pulse at my wrist.

"How are you feeling today, Peeta?" he asks in a friendly voice. I ignore him, staring quietly and waiting for him to say whatever he's come to say. "You seem more lucid today, is that true?" Again, I don't answer, but it doesn't deter him. He seems excited, almost giddy. "That's excellent," he continues, ignoring my silence. "I've brought you a treat today. Would you like to see Katniss again?"

He watches me with an odd shrewdness and I try to remain expressionless, but I'm sure he can tell I'm eager. Nephew sets up a small screen in front of me and switches it on. Is that the same as before? Katniss flashes into view, the cave in the arena last year. She's feeding me the broth Haymitch sent in. A quick sting in the back of my neck, I slap my hand up to swat it away. What was that?

I look questioningly at Nephew, but his eyes are on the screen. My eyelids feel heavy and my head droops forward. I reach up to rub my eyes and my hands look strange, too big, and hook fingered. My heartbeat starts to race and I feel a frantic itch under my skin. Wide-eyed, I look up and Katniss has me by the throat, forcing nightlock in my mouth. I clench my teeth together, pressing against the wall of the cave, but she pries my jaw open and shoves a handful between my lips. Spluttering and gagging, I spit desperately, but blood pours from my mouth. Katniss sprouts wide, black, leathery wings and flies through the cave opening, shrieking and hurling flaming arrows to ignite the forest as she goes. The roaring fire closes in on the small cave and I scream as my skin becomes sheets of flame, the walls are burning, the floor, the ceiling. My throat erupts in gushing lava as I burn, melting away into nothing until blackness closes over me.


	7. Chapter 7

"Peeta, we talked about this."

I stare intently at Dr. Lichten, wanting to follow what he says, trying not to anger him. My head is always so foggy, my thoughts are frustratingly slow to come together. "I know," I reply, "I know, but, I think she tried to help me in the stream. I think she came to get me?" Dr. Lichten has been coming to see me for a few weeks now. He talks to me about Katniss, helps me when I start to lose control. His uncle, Beetee, was a traitor who tried to kill me with an electrical trap in the arena, but Dr. Lichten helps me. He helps me understand.

"Of course she did, Peeta," he says reasonably, and I watch his mouth when he talks, trying to cement his words in my mind so I stop forgetting things so much. They were showing me a tape of my first Games and they had to get Dr. Lichten because I got so confused I lost control of myself. I see Katniss kissing me, tending to my injuries, wrapped in my arms. And I see her sabotaging me, plotting against me, trying to kill me. And I see her change into a burning, winged creature of nightmare that sets everything I care about ablaze.

Dr. Lichten continues, "The rules were changed so two tributes from the same district could be victors. If she had tried to go home without even pretending to help you, she'd have been shunned by the entire district. They love you back home, they know she's wanted you dead ever since you were reaped against her. Remember when she tried to poison you with the berries?"

My neck twitches my head sideways, and I clench my shoulder blades together. The flutter of fear in my belly, always hovering when I think about Katniss, blooms into crashing panic and I leap, screaming, against the shackles at my wrists. Dr. Lichten flinches back, but the guard steps forward and locks his arms around my throat until I'm gasping for breath and flailing weakly. He releases me slowly, keeping his hand on my throat, until he sees I'm back in command of myself.

"I'm sorry," I croak.

Dr. Lichten turns to the other man who often accompanies him. They have conversations I don't understand, but the guard uses his club when I question them, so I've learned to wait quietly. "He got too big of a dose that time, it took us so long to figure it out. Interesting that his reaction to when she actually endangered him is so swift, but he was just moments ago trying to defend her."

The other man nods, "Yes, the memories that are most discordant are hardest to alter. And he sees everything about her through such damn rosy glasses. Try another large dose, this isn't going quickly enough for the President."

"The President doesn't understand how difficult this is," Dr. Lichten snaps irritably.

"The President was told you could deliver," drawls a new voice from outside the open cell door. Head Peacekeeper Thread stands with his hand on his holster and a sneer on his face. "You guys aren't moving nearly as quickly as my team did," he says with pride. "Look at him," he scoffs, tilting his chin toward me scornfully. His eyes soften slightly as he stares at me. "He lasted a lot longer than I thought he would, though. It's hard to find someone who cracks easier when you play with someone else in their name." I bring my trembling hands up to my face and cover my eyes, chains ringing as I shake. Selt and Lyra scream when they're on the table, but Portia stared them down in silence. Until they took her thumb. Thread laughs when Dr. Lichten gags at the memory, he saw it as well. He explained to me how Katniss had arranged with her rebel allies to alter her wedding gown so instead of a symbol of her connection to me, it had burned away at the interview into a symbol of her allegiance to them. How she had framed Cinna and Portia for the treason.

I see her in my memory in the gown, sparkling and twinkling in the light. The vision of the dress sparks a memory and I frown over it. Why would it make me think of the beach? Of oysters? That makes no sense, as is true of so many of my memories. I shake my head to clear it, of the sandy beach and Portia's screams. I don't have to watch others hurt very often anymore. I try to do what Dr. Lichten asks so I don't have to watch others.

The cuff on Thread's wrist beeps and he turns away, having a short conversation. He turns back and his face is angry. I shrink into myself, anger for him almost always means pain for me. "You have to clean him up," he growls at Dr. Lichten. "President Snow wants him upstairs right away."

Dr. Lichten and his colleague protest, complaining I'm in no condition to talk to the President and I shake my head mutely in agreement. I rub my wrists against the shackles, the sharp pain helping me stay in the present even though I can feel the pull of the fear. My neck twitches as I fight to stay in control of myself.

"Enough," Thread barks. "Upstairs now!"

A pair of guards come inside and grab me, hustling me to the shower room where they attach my shackles to the wall. Stripping off my filthy clothes, they blast the water at me while scrubbing with a hard bristled brush until my skin stings from the scratches. They have me dress quickly and before I know it I'm standing, dazed and silent, outside the study of President Snow. Thread stands guard and Dr. Lichten is beside me, muttering to his companion in a troubled whisper.

"He's nowhere near ready," he complains. "I can't pinpoint triggers or intensity, his loyalty is still very high and his overall effectiveness is very low due to his health." I begin to shake and sweat. Dr. Lichten is clearly disappointed in me and I don't know what I've done wrong. He notices and turns to me in disgust. "Look at him!" he cries in frustration.

The door swings open and a guard steps back, inviting us inside. President Snow is seated on the edge of his desk, one leg swinging as he watches a small screen in his hands. He snaps it off when we come in and stands to regard me from under drooping eyelids. "Stand up straight," Dr. Lichten hisses.

"This is what all your research and promises have bought for me?" Snow asks in quiet disdain.

"Sir, please," Dr. Lichten pleads. "We're just beginning the process. Our progress is slower than we'd hoped, yes, he's very stubborn. But there is progress."

Snow lifts an eyebrow. "And Thread is unable to help with stubbornness?"

"Not this type, no sir." Dr. Lichten shakes his head. "We have to attack each individually, and carefully, and with purpose. It's remarkable. We've been working for weeks and he still only reacts with fear, no aggression. We'd anticipated almost full conversion by this point, but we just can't turn him against her."

I can feel my mouth hanging open and I watch his lips as I struggle to make sense of what he's saying. I know I'm not performing as he hoped, but I don't know what I'm not doing right. I don't know why he's upset, and that's bad because that leads to pain for someone. I can only hope I've brought it on myself this time, and not someone else because I can't force my brain to function.

"Why does he look like that?" the President asks with aversion. "He looks like he'll drool at any moment, what am I supposed to do with that?"

Dr. Lichten nudges me sharply in the ribs, finding the cracked one, and I wince but quickly pull myself up straight. "Sorry," I whisper.

"We keep him on a low dose of hexahydro, so he remains complacent, but malleable. Once he figured out what the venom was doing he would fight us, reciting recipes or chanting your na – uh, that is, uh, even knocking himself unconscious every time we injected him before it could alter any memories effectively. This way it makes it difficult for him to think clearly, but leaves him very open to suggestion."

"So can you do it or not?" Snow demands impatiently.

"Yes, sir, absolutely. We just need more time. A week, maybe two. Three at the outside."

Snow waves his hand dismissively. "It may not matter anyway. We've had a slightly unanticipated event and I need him to counter it. Can he be lucid and reliable for cameras by this evening?"

Dr. Lichten pales and stutters, "Uh, this – this evening? Cameras? What would he need to do?"

"I need him to undermine her influence, restate the need for them to stop fighting us. Can he do it?" Snow looks at me intently, doubt dripping from his gaze.

Drawing in a deep breath and blowing it out slowly, Dr. Lichten shrugs resignedly. "We won't know unless we try."

The room I'm brought into looks familiar, as if from a dream I can't quite remember. It doesn't have the shiny, sparkly look as it does in my mind, but I do recall the deck of cards on the desk, and the barred windows, and the small woman who…my mind judders and the room spins and tilts around me. I fall to my knees and clutch my head, my breathing ragged and my heart racing. A guard springs forward and slams me onto my face in the carpet, his knee planted on my neck and my shackled wrists pinned behind my back.

Dr. Lichten cries an exasperated, "Fantastic! How is he going to go on camera? Who knows what will trigger him?"

His companion shakes his head in agreement, but continues his work at his bag of medicines and syringes without pause. I squeeze my eyes shut and count up by threes to calm myself, the guard remaining on top of me. Finally, I hear footsteps next to my face, and then the sharp bite of a needle followed by a cold numbness spreading through my veins. My muscles unclench and I go limp. The guard steps away and I try to drag my eyes open, but thick blackness closes over me.

My head is splintered and throbbing. The light glares through my screwed up eyelids and pounds into my brain. My throat is a desert and swallowing is fire. My limbs are sand and my bones are jelly. I'm slumped in a deep, plush chair and my face is tipped forward onto the arm, which is catching a spreading pool of drool. I grip my hands in my hair, trying to keep my head from shattering as I pull myself upright and stare around me. I can't get my bearings. I've been surrounded by nothing but white walls for so long, all the color and texture is riotous and suffocating.

Dr. Lichten, seeing I'm awake, hurries over and peers into my eyes, holding my eyelids open and leaning in close. "Oh, very good," he mutters. "All cleaned out, I think. On to step two."

"What was step o – ow!" A sharp jab in the back of my neck and I begin to shudder violently. I'm restrained from behind, someone is holding my shoulders, or I'd shake right out of the chair. My teeth clatter together and my heels drum on the floor. My stomach clenches and I heave its meager contents onto the rug. It seems an eternity, but when the spasm passes, I sag backward in the chair, my lungs pulling air desperately and my vision wavering in and out of focus, trying to make sense of where I am.

"Water?" Dr. Lichten hands me a glass and I sniff at it before lifting it to my lips. "Suspicion!" he crows, like I'm a trained dog in a circus act and I've finally learned my new trick. "Oh, that's very good. Do keep the gun on him, please."

I look over my shoulder to see the barrel of the guard's weapon right next to my ear. "Step three?" I ask in a cracked whisper.

Dr. Lichten looks immensely relieved. "Oh, this is wonderful. Do you know where you are? How do you feel? Do you know why you're here?"

I ignore him, holding my hands in front of me. They won't stop shaking. There's a low buzz of alarm in my belly and a tension in my hairline. "Why am I here?" I ask, my voice splintering.

Dr. Lichten nods to the guard and he clips restraints on my wrists, fastening them behind my back and keeping a grip on them. "Well," the doctor begins hesitantly, "I want to talk to you about Katniss for a moment, if that's alright." I shudder violently, clenching my jaw and my nails digging into my palms. "You have the chance to speak to the people holding her. Maybe even to Katniss herself, if they let her see it." He watches me warily, looking ready for flight. "What – what would you think of that, Peeta?"

I try to decide what I think about it, but the door swings open and Head Peacekeeper Thread marches though. "So?" he barks. "Is he ready? We're about set up."

"I don't know," Lichten frets, "I need more time!"

"So what else is new?" Thread grunts. "Let's go. Worst case scenario, I shoot him on camera. And that's not so bad."

The manacles are unfastened and I'm hauled upright. I rub my wrists with trembling hands, trying to get my thoughts together and keep my feet under me as I'm dragged down the hallway. I must have been dressed while I was unconscious, I'm wearing a stylish Capitol suit and my face is stiff from makeup. My mind reels, trying to cope with all the stimuli after weeks of nothing but white walls and screaming to focus on.

Back to the room with the lights, the cameras, the buzzing energy. I flinch to see Caesar Flickerman seated and waiting in one of the chairs, but it's nothing compared to his reaction when he sees me. His hand flies to his mouth and his eyes grow wide and tearful. But only for an instant. His voice trembles when he greets me, but he coughs once and after that, it's impossible to tell he's rattled at all. The consummate showman.

The cameraman cues us in and I shift in my chair, trying to ease the position of my cracked rib. Caesar asks me a few questions, clearly on edge that he'll allude to something he shouldn't talk about. I'm equally wary of saying anything that will bring violent retribution to anyone else. Lichten sees me starting to get anxious and makes a "move it along" gesture to Caesar.

"Peeta," he begins earnestly. "There are rumors that Katniss is taping propaganda spots for the insurgency. That she is presenting herself as the hero of the rebellion."

Would she do that? Would she trade on her fame from the arena to ask people to fight for her? Would she ask anyone to die for her? My chest contracts around the empty space that used hold her. The amputated tether that used to keep me grounded and certain, a shattered connection that now only drifts in emptiness, with no answering tug from the other end. I don't know.

"They're using her obviously," I reply after a somewhat too long pause. Lichten relaxes a little back into his stance. "To whip up the rebels. I doubt she even really knows what's going on in the war. What's at stake." My voice sounds hollow and stark to my ears.

"Is there anything you'd like to tell her?" Caesar prods. I look to him, and I can see the emptiness echo in his eyes. He understands what's been lost. What she took.

"There is," I say steadily. I was wrong about so many things, but I have to try and make this right. "Don't be a fool, Katniss." I'm leaning forward, my gaze drilling into the lens, searching for hers. "Think for yourself. They've turned you into a weapon that could be instrumental in the destruction of humanity." The buzz begins in my blood, I can feel my restraint slipping, but I fight for it. "If you've got any real influence use it to put the brakes on this thing. Use it to stop the war before it's too late. Ask yourself, do you really trust the people you're working with? Do you really know what's going on?" The water is closing over my head, but I struggle against it. "And if you don't…find out." The buzz becomes a siren wail and I leap from the chair, kicking it over and screaming against the vision of the girl on fire, her flames licking up my flesh and roaring over my head. I'm a flare, an inferno. She has ignited me and I blaze in agony while she looks on.


	8. Chapter 8

My dreams are haunted by the girl who calls my name. I wake sweating and trembling, sometimes I can hear the echo of my cries still ringing in my ears. I can't understand why she terrifies me so desperately. She seems harmless in my dreams. I watch her from afar, I can't see her face, and she usually doesn't even notice I'm there. Sometimes she's tiny, in braids and pretty dresses, singing. Sometimes she's older, strong and confident in boots and leather jacket. Once, she was huddled in the rain. My heart races when I see her. But at some point every night, she turns her storm gray eyes to meet mine and calls out to me, "Peeta!" And her voice wakes me, shaking and gasping for air, my chest achingly hollow.

My waking hours are spent in nightmare. Guards beat and burn and shock me. I listen while they do the same and worse to others. I spend the days alone inside these four white walls. I use my time to plan. Eventually, they will slip. They will give me the opening I need, and I'll be gone. I will make it home and I will warn them, warn everyone that she's coming, the monster who wants to destroy everything and everyone in her flaming fury.

I'll need to be prepared. I didn't realize what she was before, she seems like a regular person on the outside. But she isn't. Not at all. She is treacherous, and devious, and hell-bent on destruction. They force me to watch tapes of her over and over. Dread and rage blaze through me as I watch her in the arena, at home, on the train, slavering for the violence and ruin she craves. I've seen her take flight on wide, blazing wings to incinerate an entire district. The Capitol created her to unleash on rebellious districts, but they lost control of her, and now she waits, plotting to destroy my home. I have to warn them she's coming.

President Snow is trying to find her as well, he wants her too. When she escaped the arena, leaving me to the captors, Dr. Lichten says she fled to District 13. Apparently that district has been lying in wait, biding their time to unleash nuclear weapons on the nation and decimate the remaining human population as revenge for the obliteration of their own. Katniss is using them as a base, making the rounds through the districts, inciting the citizens to war to satisfy her thirst for destruction. I have to get to her before Snow does. He wants to bring her back under his own power, but I can't let that happen. I have to destroy her before she ravages more lives.

I jerk back when I hear the keypad outside the door, but instead of eagerly armed Peacekeepers, Dr. Lichten steps into my cell. I see him less frequently now, since the interview a few days ago that went so terribly wrong.

"Good afternoon, Peeta," he says in a calm, friendly voice. I don't answer, keeping my eyes steadily on him, trying to be ready for whatever he brings with him. "You look well." I smirk at this, he really does need something from me.

"What can I do for you?" I ask, equally calm and polite, as though we were meeting over a cup of tea in my father's bakery.

"I think I can do something for you, actually," he replies brightly. "I would like to offer you the chance to talk to the districts again."

I laugh out loud. "Because that went so well last time," I scoff.

"Actually, it was very effective," Dr. Lichten says. "We cut the feed before you became…distressed, and public reaction was very positive. We noticed a marked decrease in violence by the insurgents. You saved lives, Peeta."

"So now they're causing Snow problems again and he wants me to get them back in line?"

The doctor cocks his head and considers me for a long moment. "Are you feeling better now that you aren't taking your medication any longer?" he asks conversationally.

"You mean, can I form two thoughts together now that you've stopped doping me?" I stare past his shoulder at the wall behind him. I have to be careful, if I seem to be a threat and he starts drugging me again I might miss my chance. "I can think more clearly, yes," I answer complacently. "I feel better."

"Good," he murmurs. "Good. Then you understand how important it is that you deliver this message? I know you don't agree with President Snow on everything," he intentionally ignores my snort of laughter, "but you both know how important this is. Katniss is out there pushing them to martyr themselves for her. They are causing irreparable damage to the infrastructure in their own districts in misguided attempts to sabotage the Capitol. Losing resources they depend upon, not to mention lives." My eyes are squeezed shut and my fists are clenched so that my trembling hands don't start to fly around by themselves. My head twitches sideways and I claw desperately at my control, staying in the present and not screaming out loud.

"Very good, Peeta," Dr. Lichten says as he watches me struggle. "You are doing marvelously. I am very proud of your progress."

My blazing glare meets his tepid, pale gaze and he flinches backward, his eyes flying to the manacles that chain me to the wall. Reassured, he smiles and continues, "I think this will go so well. I'll send the guards to clean and dress you."

He closes the door behind himself and I sit with my eyes closed, pulling my bloody wrists against the shackles so the metal bites into my skin, helping me focus. When the Peacekeepers haul me to the shower room, I'm calm enough that they don't need to wrestle me in. I breathe deeply, enduring the scrubbing while reminding myself that although I don't want to help Snow, if people will listen to me about putting an end to this war, I have to try. I have so many deaths to answer for, I have to try and stop this if I can.

Walking through the door to the familiar room where I will be dressed, I gag and my neck twitches my head over. There is no prep team, but memories bubble and seethe when I see the stranger standing with my outfit next to a makeup tray. Dr. Lichten anxiously asks if I want a sedative, but I refuse to compromise my concentration and I assure him I'm alright. As the dresser clucks and tsks at how the suit hangs on my bony frame, my hands clench and unclench spasmodically, my neck continually stretching my chin forward. I bite the inside of my cheek until I can taste blood, but I get my body under control. All except my hands, I've given up trying to stop their trembling. While the dresser works, Dr. Lichten briefs me on the events he would like to see me address. I listen carefully, concentrating and horrified to hear of the damage being done, the lives being sacrificed.

I'm taken to where the cameras are set up in a strange room this time. There is a high, imposing podium with the seal of the Capitol on the left of the staged area, and a large map of Panem projected on a screen to the rear. The director ushers me onto a tall stool next to the screen and I seat myself, hands balled in my lap and jaw clenched. A babble of voices and a group of people dressed severely in white enter the room. The smell hits me before I see him. The sickly scent of his toxic rose winds its tendrils into my brain and tries to take control of my body, like a puppet master and a marionette. My leg begins to jitter and my heart pounds erratically. I lock my teeth in a grimacing rictus and fight the sensation of being pulled underwater, struggle to remain in command of myself.

Snow smiles maliciously when he sees me. "My, my" he murmurs in his low, warm voice. "I see you're being well looked after." His gaze drags slowly from my throbbing head to my twitching feet, his eyes glittering. "This will do nicely."

I choke down the bile rising in my throat and dig my nails into my wrist until I force my rebelling body under control. I stare straight ahead and ask flatly, "Are we ready?" He stares for a moment longer, as though pleased with an accomplishment, before stepping behind the podium and the cameraman cues us in.

The strains of the anthem shiver up my spine and my vision begins to swim. Twin flashes of the arena battle in my mind. Katniss in the cave, devastated by the image of Thresh in the sky. But the next instant she laughs triumphantly to see him there. The dissonance of the two visions is making the room spin, I can't hear President Snow clearly as he greets the viewers in a welcoming, measured voice. My tongue is sandpaper when he introduces me and the bright lights pound down and my eyes won't focus. I begin to outline the damage the rebels are doing, trying to illustrate the danger to themselves, my mouth forming the words almost independently as my brain whirls and tries to gain traction on the thoughts battling in my head. Rue, covered in blood, covered in flowers, smiling down from the sky as the anthem plays. Katniss, heartbroken, singing her to her rest.

The playback screen suddenly scrambles and a new view pops up. Rubble. As far as the eye can see, destruction and death. But in the middle of the screen, something about the pile is hauntingly familiar. I'm unable to focus on it though, because standing amongst all the chaos, is Katniss. She looks years older and weary beyond words. "There's no one left to hear you," she intones blankly.

The image lasts only seconds, and then flicks back to my own face, staring befuddled at the camera. My recitation picks up automatically. My mind is so unreliable, I'm unable to believe if I really saw anything at all. The confusion is seeping into anger, the fury that takes me when I see her. And then the screen sparks again and Finnick is staring back at me, talking about the bravery and resourcefulness Rue showed in the arena. My brain feels like it's splintering, and my teeth begin to chatter.

The monitor crackles back and forth between our set and shots of Katniss, visions of her standing before smoldering ruins, shooting planes from the sky, walking through rooms full of wounded and dying. She paces among rubble and down streets littered with charred bodies.

Panic overwhelms me and l leap from my chair, a shriek bubbling up in my throat, but a guard is there immediately, arm tight around my neck and a fistful of my jacket slamming me back onto the stool and holding me there while I thrash maniacally. The Capitol seal fills the monitor and a piercing tone keens through my madness until I hear Snow's voice rise above the clamor.

"We have no choice! Send the bombers to Thirteen tonight!"

I freeze and my howling brain slams to a stop.

While pandemonium reigns the monitor fizzes to life and Snow is back on camera, assuring the audience the rebels are trying to shut down the broadcast for damaging their cause. I'm shaking like I'll fly apart, my teeth chattering and my hands clawing at my legs. Deep in my chest, a spark is crashing against my ribs, scrabbling its way up my lungs, scraping its way behind my eyes, until, when Snow asks if I have a final message for Katniss, it splinters my brain into a million jagged shards.

"Katniss…how do you think this will end? What will be left?" My throat closes over the spark, fighting it back, but it frantically tears its way free. "No one is safe. Not in the Capitol. Not in the districts. …" The black tides of fury and terror crash over me, the need to destroy her, but like a drowning man battling for a last gasp of air, the spark shrieks through my mind: protect her! "And you…in Thirteen…dead by morning!"

"End it!" Snow's voice snaps across the turmoil and the set is in chaos. I try to scream for Katniss to run, to flee, to find shelter, but three guards crash toward me and the first blow knocks me to the floor. By the fourth, the darkness has me.


	9. Chapter 9

Fire cascades down the walls, running like a fluid across the floor and up the doorway to lick across the ceiling. The roar of the flames, the crackle and pop as I'm devoured, endlessly, echoes in my head. I scream and scream, my flesh melting from my bones as I run toward my home. They are burning.

I jolt awake, my scream still ringing in my ears. I'm bound at ankle and wrist, chest and hip. Strapped to the table where I've seen so many before me endure the questions of our captors. The wall before me is glass, tormentors in rumpled uniforms stare through at me with rapt curiosity. Sometimes their heads bubble misshapenly, or the glass glimmers in rainbow waves. My eyes cannot be trusted.

The man who works with Dr. Lichten enters the room to prod and poke, peel back my eyelids and make clucking sounds and notes on his clipboard. Sometimes he has an extra eye. My own eyes dart frantically around the room as it wavers between jungle, white walls, and flaming hell. Sandy and dry, my throat is no longer mine to command, making no sounds except squeaking rasps. He notices and holds a straw to my cracked lips but I flinch away as he looms monstrously large, the tentacle from his hand replacing the straw.

"How is he?" Dr. Lichten's voice crashes in crystalline splinters through the room.

"Completely out of it," the other man mutters, human again. "He woke finally, but his pupils won't contract and he can't speak. I think he's still hallucinating. Look at him though, I think he can hear us."

"Hmmm, yes," the doctor agrees. "That dose was quite heavy. But after that colossal disaster, we need to pick up progress immediately. President Snow is furious the principal emotion was retained in such extreme circumstances. We should be past that by now!" His voice rises in frustration and he slams his fist down on the table in front of him.

With a click like a whirring clockwork the image snaps clearly into my mind. The vision of Katniss standing amongst rubble and ash. Behind her, the table. The brick bench where I've spent countless hours next to my father, pounding at elastic dough or bent close over a piping tip. "There's no one left to hear you."

The scream uncoils from the base of my spine and boils up through my chest to burst from my throat in a keening wail of despair, echoing against the cold white walls and bouncing back to pummel me in waves of anguish. A mad scramble of activity, a blur of movement, and the cold sting of a needle below my ear. Dark iciness floods my veins, pulling me away from the sharp awareness that has cut through the fog of terror and confusion. As I spiral down away from the light, my howl of desolation follows me. My home. My family is gone.

In the gray emptiness, the dull ache of my ravaged skin tugs at my attention until I have to respond. My wrists throb, raw against the biting restraints where I've been pulling until my chest and arms burn with the effort. Sandy, burning eyes and sharp, sandpaper tongue are next to complain until I'm heaved from the dark tide of sleep to sprawl splinteringly awake.

"Finally." The low mutter of the doctor's frustration pulls my eyes sideways, the rest of my body immobilized and straining.

"What happened?" I plead desperately. "Was that real? Was Katniss at my house? Where's my family?" The questions tumble over one another, cracked despair forced from my raw throat.

"He seems to have flushed most of it out," Dr. Lichten notes absently to his assistant. "The sedative lasted longer than I anticipated, perhaps a reaction with the venom?"

"Answer me!" I roar, bucking against the restraints and muscles trembling with the effort.

The doctor turns to me and meets my frantic gaze calmly, lips pursed as though deciding if he wants to share what he knows. I pull my breath in a ragged, heaving gasp and rub my wrists against the metal, focusing on the sharp pain to calm my panic. I try to look controlled and lucid, try to concentrate on what he is about to say.

"Peeta," he begins. His voice is gentle, but his eyes are calculating, watching me to note my reaction to his news. "I'm very sorry to have to tell you this. Katniss had gone to District 12 looking for you. She didn't find you there, and in retribution, she burned the entire district to the ground."

My mind slips and stutters, trying to process what he said. I saw her, surrounded by the rubble of incineration. But my eyes cannot be trusted. I squeeze them shut against the pounding terror and try to think. I can't think. I can't remember correctly, can't piece things together right. I didn't get out of here in time, didn't warn them she was coming. She burned them looking for me. I see her, soaring on blazing wings, flaming arrows laying waste below as she slavers for death and destruction. But my eyes cannot be trusted.

"Peeta?" Dr. Lichten prods cautiously. "Did you hear me?"

I ignore him, every muscle clenched in the effort to hold myself together, to keep from flying apart in the empty despair ripping through the center of me. This happened because of me.

Dr. Lichten's voice is low and cautious, and not addressing me. "Ok, try the new one," he murmurs. I feel the cold pinch of a needle in my shoulder and fire races through my veins, my jaw spasming tight and my neck straining against the straps. My muscles turn to stone in the wake of the burning flame coursing through my blood. Eyes rolling desperately, tendons bulging in my neck, fingers splayed, my scream freezes in my throat as I burn from the inside out.

"Doctor, are you sure?" The assistant's voice is worried, his words ringing inside my head where sounds are vibrant colors and sharp edged echoes.

"We're out of time. We can't risk him relapsing again." Black tinged threats from Lichten. "This won't be as clean, but once he's completed the objective, it doesn't really matter what happens to him afterward, right?"

Dark purple and gray streaked orange throb behind my eyes. A sickly yellow and brownish green blur together, sparkling and pulsing. In the center of my vision, a black whorl spins endlessly toward me, threatening to swallow me into its crushing depths. Another sting in my shoulder and waves of panic begin to rise from deep in my belly. Overwhelming fear. Crashing, clawing, screaming desperation. My frozen body cries out to flee, the agony of terror turning my insides to an icy pit.

The screen pops to life in front of me. Flashing across the view is frame after frame of horror. Burning, tearing, gashing, clawing. Women, men, children, animals. War, accidents, injuries, battles. And every few frames, her. She stands coldly detached, surveying the chaotic madness with a satisfied smile, her ravenous hunger finally sated. District 12 fills the screen, a smoking ruin, my home smoldering in the foreground. Katniss, fiery wings folded behind her, holds out her hand to me. Her storm gray eyes meet mine, clear and strong.

A tearing sensation, deep in my mind. With a guttural scream that starts in my belly, blackness surges up my throat and gushes behind my eyes, oozing and twining its way into my brain until it invades and claims everything that I am and finally, despairingly, I slip unresisting into its embrace.

 _kill her kill her kill her_ The whisper echoes in the cold, white room where I wake. My body is sluggish and unresponsive, heavy and aching. _burn burn burn burn_ I force my head to the side, where is it coming from? I'm alone, shackled to the wall, but lying on my side on the floor. _she's coming_ My body jerks and heaves, fear flooding my belly and working out to my trembling hands. The chains clank and rattle, my head splitting with the jangling noise. Then, the piercing beeps of the keypad and the door opens to reveal the assistant to Dr. Lichten. He stares at me intently, is he afraid?

Stepping inside, he pulls the door almost closed behind himself and crouches out of reach. It's unusual to see him alone, no guards or assistants. _careful watch out don't trust_ I twitch my head, trying to ignore the hissing whisper.

"Hello, Peeta," he says, his voice hesitant and his eyes watchful. "How are you feeling?"

I pull myself upright, keeping him in my sight the whole time. "Who's talking to me?" I ask, my voice a crackling wheeze.

He looks unhappy. "It's me, Peeta. You remember. I'm Tihen, I work with Dr. Lichten."

"No, no, no," my head shakes rapidly back and forth. "I mean the other one. Before you came."

He watches me carefully, calculating. "Just now? When you woke? Was someone talking to you then?" he asks.

 _hurt him choke him rip him_ The whisper snarls and commands, my mind begins to pinwheel, control of my thoughts slipping from my grasp. "It's there," I murmur. "Do you hear it?" My eyes lift to his and I feel the corners of my mouth rise in a cold smile. "It wants me to hurt you."

His eyes widen and dart to the shackles, but then, is he sad? Is it regret in his dark stare? "Peeta," his voice is low and urgent. "You have to fight it." He leans toward me, close enough for me to grab him. _do it_ I shudder and shake my head, listening to both is making my head ache. "These aren't your thoughts. You've been given an assignment but you mustn't do it. You have to find yourself. You have to remember."

 _burn burn burn tear rip claw_ I can't hear what he's saying, can't make sense of his words. The whisper is a shriek in my head, the hiss drowning out my thoughts and making it impossible to concentrate. I squeeze my eyes shut and clamp my hands over my ears.

"No, Peeta, please," he reaches for my wrist, but I snarl and snap and he backs away immediately, hands raised. "We have no time," he hisses desperately. "Listen, you have to find a way back. You have to remember what's real. None of this is real. None of this is – " The shot is a cracking echo and I jerk my head up to see him arch backward, hands clutching at his throat as he collapses to quiver and bleed and gasp before his hands fall away and he lies silently, blood spreading in a wide, glimmering pool around him. _done done done_

Dr. Lichten steps forward quickly, the smoking pistol tossed aside, and uncuffs my unresisting wrists from the wall. He stares at me a moment, as though deciding, then smirks.

"As ready as you'll ever be," he shrugs.

 _kill kill kill kill kill kill kill_ A guard scoops up the body and moves quietly away.Lichten steps back into the hallway and swings the door shut again. The keypad beeps and in a moment, I hear the scrape at the end of the hall and they are gone. I huddle against the wall, eyes wide and heart racing, alone, except for the whisper.

It's been hours, days, years. Alone, except for the constant hum, the buzz and call, the command. _find her_ I can relegate it to the background, can think of other things, but I can't banish it completely. I don't know what happened, don't know what's happening now, but something is different. They've stopped feeding us, stopped beating us, stopped paying any attention to us at all. I don't know what Tihen meant, that this isn't real, but I try desperately to figure out what I know for sure either way, grasping frantically at the fragile shreds of certainty.

My name is Peeta Mellark. I am seventeen years old. My home is District 12. I was in the Hunger Games. I was taken prisoner. Katniss Everdeen is trying to kill me.

It's a short list, worryingly so. But I cannot trust my eyes, my memories, my thoughts. The only other thing I know for sure is that I will escape, and I will kill Katniss.

Clutching my hands in my hair, I breathe deeply, trying to quiet the whisper. I've grown used to it, but the bile sets my nerves on edge. The constant hiss for violence and blood and – the room shudders to a muffled concussion. I throw my hands against the wall behind me as dust sifts down from the ceiling. A detonation? Far away, but powerful. I'm suddenly very aware of how much earth is piled over my underground cell. The claustrophobic tension sends the whisper into a shrieking frenzy and I begin to rock back and forth, grating a high pitched moan through my teeth.

I hear a clatter and a hiss, like a gas leak. A faint odor, almost like eggs or rotten vegetables. My eyes begin to lose focus and my head swims, my thoughts chasing each other uselessly. Weakly, I lift my collar over my mouth and nose, trying to filter the air, but I can tell it's too late. My bones are sand and I slide limply to the floor.

An enormous blast. In a squealing crumple, the door crinkles inward, the hinges hanging uselessly. A gigantic figure fills the doorway, a mask covering the face, but crouching down to reach for me. Through the visor, familiar gray eyes meet my own, and the depths of horror and sadness reflected there swim blearily through my awareness, unexpected. Swirling darkness pulls at me as I'm lifted, cradled protectively, carried through the door to the hallway as the lights cut out. I force my lips to obey me before consciousness fades.

"Johanna," I mutter in a cracked whisper.

"We got her," Gale's voice is gentle. The darkness takes me.


	10. Chapter 10

_find her kill her she's coming she's here_ I stand in the smoking ashes of my home, the district around me a rubble of chaotic destruction. Cries for help, screams of the dying, wailing of the bereaved, all the clamor cannot block out the hissing demand. A vibration in my head, attuned to my bones so my entire body hums in response. _burned killed devoured_ I look out over the decimated landscape, nothing but murderous wreckage as far as the eye can see.

A quick flutter of movement catches my eye and I turn swiftly to see the tiny girl skipping lightly away from me among the ruins. Her dark braids are sifted with ash and her dress smeared with blood. Her progress is marked by a small cluster of mockingjays who trill the song she hums back and forth, the melody hauntingly familiar. Closing my eyes, I concentrate on the delicate strains weaving together. The beauty of the song sends a warm glow spreading from my belly up through my limbs and it almost drowns out the whisper.

I open my eyes at the touch of a small hand on my arm. The girl stands next to me, her face turned away, eyes on the birds. Their song fills the air all around us and she turns to look into my eyes, her clear gray gaze reaching deep into my own and seizing the breath from my lungs. "Stay with me, Peeta."

With a scream I leap awake to pandemonium. The whisper rises to a shriek as I claw my way backward from the uniformed strangers clustering around me. I topple off the gurney and crash to the floor, scrabbling away until my back presses against the cold wall and my palms search frantically for a way to move further. I've never seen this room before, and that cannot be good news. Machines bank the walls and no one looks familiar as my wild-eyed gaze sweeps the strange surroundings. All new staff? What do they specialize in? My stomach drops as I anticipate the new development, but the cold fear is well-known and helps to ground me. I have to pull myself together in case they turn to someone else as punishment for me not cooperating.

With a shuddering breath, I press my palms backward and push myself up to standing, the trembling in my legs almost dropping me to the floor again. Two uniformed men step forward cautiously, eyeing me warily, but taking my arms gently and helping me back to my seat on the gurney, speaking in low, calming voices.

 _bite scrape claw_ _scream_ I shudder violently when a woman holding a syringe puts her hand on my arm, then flinch at the expected reprisal, but it doesn't come. She smiles gently and apologizes, explaining she's going to draw some blood. _bite burn claw scream break_ I clench my jaw against the need to sink my teeth into her throat, my entire body trembling with the effort to stay seated while the hiss screams at me to run, tearing flesh as I go. I focus my mind on the table in the other room, the straps, the buckles, the latches. I run over each in careful detail, imagining who they will strap down next to punish me if I don't comply. The thought is enough to allow me to stay seated while they murmur around me, poking and prodding, lifting my eyelids, shining bright lights into my blank stare. _claw tear rip_

A clamor behind and all the people around me pause, looking up, then, almost as one, stepping back from me. I turn to see the cause of this behavior, preparing myself for the new way they've decided to try hurting me. But I am in no way prepared for what I see. Shock drags the room into slow motion around me as the whisper pitches to an insane scream inside my head. My vision darkens around the edges, closing into a tunnel that blocks out everything and everyone except for the girl running toward me. I leap from the gurney, sweeping aside the bodies in my path as I reach for Katniss Everdeen.

With a guttural snarl, I smash her to the ground, my fingers closing around her throat, digging deep into the soft, white flesh. I feel her windpipe beneath my hands, feel it tremble and struggle and I squeeze tighter, jaw clenched and teeth bared as the hiss shrieks for her blood. Her eyes roll wildly, hands clutching at my wrists as she bucks beneath me. Bared fangs snap at my face and talons rip into my skin, but I don't release her. Her wings flare out behind her, flames running up my arms and engulfing my head, but I don't release her. She screams a high, ragged shriek that reverberates with the hiss in my head, the two tones looping together, twining into one screeching pitch that shatters behind my eyes, shards of my mind splintering away and spinning into the darkness that consumes me, but I don't release her.

Her face shimmers before my eyes, wet from the rain, cowering beside the bins, empty and hollow and desperate. _protect her_ A tearing in my head, my fingers spasm tighter but then loosen.

A crashing blow to my temple and my bones turn to jelly. I slump to the floor, blackness wheeling in sparks and snaps as my vision fades, my flopping hands clutching for her throat and the hissing demand echoing into the gathering black. _kill her kill her kill her kill her kill her kill her kill her_

Darkness holds me under like miles of cold seawater. I can't fight my way out from under it, no matter how hard I struggle toward the surface. When I finally wake, drenched in icy sweat and every muscle burning from the tension it's been held in, I gasp for air around my sandpaper tongue. I'm strapped to a bed in an unfamiliar room, a watchful attendant rising to press a call button when he sees my eyes crack open.

"Would you like some water?" he asks, holding a straw to my split lips. The sweet wetness flows over my tongue and down my parched throat. But I shudder violently before heaving it back up, my knotted stomach unprepared to process it.

Another man in a gray jumpsuit, holding a clipboard, strides through the doorway in time to see me gag weakly. Clucking his tongue, he deftly scoops an ice cube from a tray and holds it against my lips. "Only IV for him for now, I'm afraid," he admonishes the other attendant. "Ice chips are ok, but he hasn't had anything in his stomach for days, we need to go slowly."

"I'm so sorry," the first man apologizes sincerely. "I didn't realize."

Bewildered, unable to understand the first kindness I've experienced in weeks, the whisper tears into a screech and I voice it, thrashing and howling against my restraints. _don't trust liars tricks_ The siren wail screams through my mind and I buck and pitch, hauling against the manacles and scraping my throat raw with my cursing rant. My vision begins to blacken and sparks pop behind my eyes. I sag against the restraints, my body too weak to continue to heed the manic call of the hiss. I lie shivering, gasping ragged breaths and fading in and out of consciousness.

 _liars tricks hurting kill burn gouge_ The whisper chants its litany of rage through my consciousness and I clench my eyes shut, unable to escape, unable to block it out, unable to relegate it to the back of my mind. All I can see are visions of Katniss, her throat gripped in my hands, eyes bulging, flames haloing around her as I try to squeeze the life from her. _failure weakling disappointment_ I couldn't do it.

But another sound begins to make itself heard in my black awareness. Like a drowning man, I clutch at the gentler tone, sharpening all my attention to the whispering flutter buried far and deep beneath the bile. _protect her_ When the sound comes into focus it sends me into renewed frenzy, rage searing through my exhausted throat and limbs, terror blazing through my icy veins. I scream and thrash, fighting and bucking and straining.

"Put him out," the regretful command slices through the riotous noise. A cold needle, then clutching darkness.

When I wake again, my limbs are leaden and my thoughts like syrup. I pull weakly at the manacles tethering me to the bed, but I can't summon the strength to fight it. The whisper is low but steady, a slurred chanting of hunger and rage. Watching from the corner is the man in the jumpsuit. The same man? I can't tell. He approaches carefully, slowly and without sudden moves.

"Peeta?" His voice is equally cautious and a searing shame shivers through me. I'm like an animal they have to subdue, incapable of controlling myself.

The humiliation washes over me and hot tears well behind my eyes, spilling silently down my temples to pool in my ears, my manacled wrists unable to even wipe them away.

"Peeta, you're ok. We have you on a mild depressant to help you stay calm while the venom works its way out of your system. It may tamper with your mood slightly." The man hovers over me, concern etched clearly on his face, but nowhere close to outweighing the readiness to flee. "My name is Vespan Aurelius. I'm sorry to drug you again, but you were extremely distraught."

This wild understatement provokes a low, grating chuckle that takes me by surprise. e's I nod my agreement, and he relaxes very slightly. "I'm sorry," I rasp. "Why are you here?"

He swallows nervously and seems to search for his reply. My thoughts swim through molasses and crash slowly off one another. A vision of a mask, gray eyes peering into my own. A shudder runs through me, the whisper sharpening its call for blood. Was I carried from my cell? My eyes cannot be trusted.

"Actually," he says with false cheer, "the 'here' is the interesting part of that question." He smiles weakly and the whisper begins to ramp up. _liar liar liar_ My hands fidget and clench, my feet twitching sharply and my neck twisting my chin forward. I fight to remain clear -headed but the drug only slows my reactions, it doesn't negate them, and they are beginning to rise to the surface.

With a narrow-eyed glance, he twiddles a knob and syrupy weight floods my veins, my hands like bricks and my eyelids are slate shingles. "Don' do tha'" I slur heavily, my tongue thick and slow.

"I'm very sorry, Peeta, but I must speak with you, and you quickly become…unreachable." He shrugs apologetically, but I shake my head.

"I can' speak," I try to force the words to be understood, "bu' I can still fill it."

"You can still feel what?" he asks earnestly, pen poised and ready.

"Hurt you."

He nods, a sympathetic frown pulling his brows together. _rip rip claw scream bite_ "Well, perhaps we should try and get this over with quickly. Peeta, do you know where you are? How you got here?"

"Cap-sherd," I mutter, "She lef' me."

Scribbling frantically, he nods quickly as he writes. The whisper is sharpening in focus, coming closer to the surface. _tear scrape gash_

"Yes, Peeta," he agrees, without looking up. "You were captured. You were taken to the Capitol where you were held prisoner, and, we believe, tortured for information, and I'm so sorry that happened. But," he looks up from his notes, his pale blue stare holding mine intently. "You are not there now."

 _liar liar liar liar don't trust trickery liar tricks_ "Where?" I force out. I can't focus, can't make sense of what he's saying. The whisper is winding up to a deafening screech and the drug makes it impossible to concentrate, to reason.

"Peeta, you are safe. You are in District 13."

 _she's here she's here she's here she's here she's here_ My rage slices through the cottony fog wrapping my thoughts and I arch my body against the manacles, straining to pull myself free, shrieking for her blood. I scream and writhe and buck, madness overwhelming every other sensation as I thrash to slake my ravenous thirst for her destruction. A quick, stinging jab and I'm limp, gasping against the black void that rushes in to devour and consume me. _kill her kill her kill her kill her kill her kill her kill her_


	11. Chapter 11

The ceiling is randomly pocked with small divots. What could make those marks? I start to lift my hand toward it, but the wrist strap catches me. I frown slowly. Where am I? I try to take stock, but my thoughts are so jumbled, and my brain so chaotic, I can't make any sense of what's happening. _run run run_ The whisper is low and steady, but less angry, more fearful. I fill my lungs with a deep, long breath of relief. The absence of the bloodthirst feels almost like the hiss is gone altogether.

Turning my head slowly, cautious not to provoke the whisper, I look around carefully. I'm in a smallish room, strapped to a bed. Two walls are banked with machines running various tubes and wires to me and the third has a large, wide mirror. I smirk and nod to the glass. Does that ever fool anyone? The question is, who is behind it? The spark of curiosity is so unfamiliar, it catches my attention. My thoughts no longer have the fuzzy, drifting quality they've had for so long. I feel clearer, but with that clarity comes a realization of how completely clueless I am about what's happening to me.

My jagged thoughts won't fit together properly, but I try to sort through the flashes and match the ones that make sense with my current situation. I remember being carried from my cell after watching Tihen be shot. What was he telling me? _blood blood blood_ The whisper turns dark as I focus on the image of him on the floor and I quickly shift my thoughts to something else. Another uniformed man with a clipboard, but not Dr. Lichten. Was it Dr. Lichten? No, I don't think so. He was trying to control me with drugs the same way, though. _hurt him jab him rip him_

I shake my head, trying to rub my wrists against the manacles to focus, but they've been bandaged and the pain is only a dull ache. Where am I? What do they want from me? Who will they hurt if I don't give it to them?

I jump when the door swings softly open to admit a tall, dark man and shorter woman who walks with a definite air of authority. My befuddled mind fixates on her iron gray curtain of hair. It hangs in a straight sheet, so perfectly aligned it must be terrified into submission. Her frosty gray eyes are chips of ice and her angular, austere features seem chiseled from stone.

 _run run run run_ The whisper is rising to a shrill panic and my skin crawls as she studies me coldly from the doorway. I begin to tremble with the effort of keeping a lucid hold on my thoughts and my neck starts to twitch my chin forward.

"Is he completely done?" she asks in a clipped, flinty voice.

"Hard to tell," the man replies, his voice surprisingly gentle for how fierce he appears. "Aurelius says they used a drug therapy on him that's ruined his mind."

A cold pit opens in my stomach as my worst fears are confirmed. "His hearing is unimpaired, however," I offer tightly.

The woman's eyebrows lift and she turns to me appraisingly. "I apologize," she replies briskly. "That was inexcusable. How are you feeling, Peeta?"

 _tricks lies traps_ I watch her carefully before replying. "Better," I allow. "I appreciate not being comatose just for convenience's sake. How long was I out?"

"Almost three days," she tells me, watching me equally carefully. I fight to remain impassive at this news. It explains a lot, though. The dragging weight of exhaustion is conspicuously absent, and, while still scattered and discordant, my thoughts aren't syrupy anymore.

"Where are we, exactly?" I ask.

Her lips lift in a small, proud smile. "Welcome to the hospitality of District 13."

A tearing shriek, my body hauling against the restraints as I thrash and scream to reach her. Wide-eyed, she retreats quickly, my barrage of guttural threats and howls following her as I flail in the manacles, screaming until my throat gives out in the empty room she leaves behind.

I think an entire night has passed. My head aches throbbingly and my throat is raw. An echo rings in my ears of hours and hours of screaming but I can't remember who it was, or why. Was Johanna being hurt again? Or maybe Selt? I thrash fitfully against my manacles in the unfamiliar room. _run run run run_ The whisper has a frantic edge, an urgency that makes my blood jitter. I almost miss the dull befuddlement of the drugs, this awareness without knowing anything that's happening fills me with an itching, buzzing anxiety. _liars liars liars_ The whisper hisses angrily, stirring a boiling emptiness in my stomach, making me squirm.

The door swings open and two men in jumpsuits enter, one carrying a tray with a glass of water and a steaming bowl. He places it on a small table on the side while the other approaches me slowly and smiles an encouraging greeting.

"Good morning, Peeta," he begins. "How are you feeling?"

I stare at him blankly, the false cheer setting my teeth on edge.

"Are you hungry?" he continues. "We thought you might like to try some solid food this morning. Well," he chortles, "semi-solid."

I blink in response. _idiot snake imbecile_ I clench my jaw against the hateful bile that wants to spill out over him. _kill soft tear claw_

He reaches back for the bowl, his eyes never leaving my face, and the second man places it in his hand. He brings it around and make a big deal of showing me what's in the bowl. "It's good, hot porridge. The cook made it specially for you."

My eyes narrow, but his infantile tone of voice makes me queasy, remembering what the other man had said about my mind. "Thank you," I reply coldly, and at my tone he looks nervously backward to his colleague. "Why are you all dressed the same?" I ask.

The question takes him off guard and his mouth opens and closes a few times before he replies, "It's our uniform."

"That's enough," the second man says in a low, warning voice. I turn my attention to him and realize he's the one from before, the one who was drugging me. He's staying conspicuously out of sight, trying to observe without engaging. _tricks liar liar run_ The whisper pitches up and my wrists jerk against the restraints. Immediately, almost comically quickly, the men turn and leave.

I lie in the quiet after they've left. I can only guess how many people are behind that one-way glass, watching me, studying me, whispering about me. _break smash splinter_ I don't even need the whisper. The urge to crash through that glass and shake one until they tell me what's going on is all me. I stare at the ceiling, my hands twitching, pulling, picking, never still. If they would only untie me, I could grab one of them and make them talk, I think bleakly. I'm tired of being kept in the dark, of not knowing. My lip curls as I flash back over all the secrets that have been kept from me. The whisper begins to hiss angrily and I immediately change my focus to the porridge the men brought in. I haven't had actual food in days, it would have been nice to swallow, I think regretfully. Even just gloppy porridge. The IV keeps me hydrated and nourished, but I miss –

The door swings open and my eyes dart nervously that way, and I pull a sharp breath. A girl enters, alone, dressed in the same drab jumpsuit I've seen on everyone lately. Then, her face strobes and flashes, overlaying bright red curls instead of the blond braid. Lavinia's face flickers over hers, a memory stirring deep in the recesses of my mind.

"Peeta?" Her voice is sweet, a tremulous joy threading through it that sparks a different memory. "It's Delly," she beams. "From home."

The words are like sunbeams breaking through storm clouds. I peer at her intently, unable to place her in this context. "Delly?" She lights up at my recognition, her smile spreading impossibly wider. "Delly. It's you." My mind spins away from this possibility. She is such a random and unexpected encounter, I can't quite get a grasp on how to react to her.

"Yes!" she exclaims, delighted. "How do you feel?"

"Awful," I admit, still trying to reconcile this bizarre meeting with a childhood friend. I can't understand how she's here. "Where are we? What's happened?"

"Well…we're in District Thirteen. We live here now." She watches me apprehensively.

"That's what those people have been saying," I agree, bewildered that she would confirm this outrageous statement with such complete nonchalance. "But it makes no sense. Why aren't we home?" I demand in confusion.

"There was…an accident," she replies hesitantly. _burn burn burn_ The whisper reawakens and I feel a tingle of fear zip over my skin. A memory slips through my mind, just out of reach. "I miss home badly, too," she continues in a rush. "I was only just thinking about those chalk drawings we used to do on the paving stones. Yours were so wonderful. Remember when you made each one a different animal?"

Drawing. Brightly cheerful menageries on the walkway outside. Uri smearing his shoes through our work. The walkway an ashen ruin. "Yeah," I stumble, the whirl of images in my mind doesn't make sense. "Pigs and cats and things." A yowly yellow cat. A scorched doorway. "You said…about an accident?" I try to make meaning of the crowd of visions.

"It was bad. No one…could stay."

The brick bench. Blackened and stark against the smoldering backdrop of the town. Delly continues to prattle gaspingly and I stare unblinking, trying to separate her words from the rising tide of the whisper's fury. _burned burned burned burned_

"Why hasn't my family come to see me?" Why is this occurring to me only now?

"They can't," Delly chokes, her blue eyes shining with tears. "A lot of people didn't get out of Twelve. So we'll need to make a new life here." Her words echo meaninglessly, I can't grab hold of them and look at them clearly. Her lips move soundlessly until two words slice through my confusion like surgeon's scalpels, "your father."

Twelve. Ablaze. Ashes and ruin. "There was a fire," I cut in roughly, the vision coming into sudden, stark clarity.

"Yes," she whispers, wide eyed.

"Twelve burned down didn't it," I grind out. _find her kill her burn her destroy her_ "Because of her. Because of Katniss." I can barely spit the words out.

"Oh, no, Peeta," Delly whimpers. "It wasn't her fault."

"Did she tell you that?" _liar destroyer murderer_ The shriek of the whisper matches the fury of my own words. My family is ashes blowing among the destruction of my home. She did this!

"She didn't have to. I was – "

Delly doesn't know! She's living here with her and she doesn't know! "Because she's lying!" I scream. "She's a liar! You can't believe anything she says! She's some kind of mutt the Capitol created to use against the rest of us!"

She's backing away, toward the open doorway. I strain against the manacles, I have to get free. I have to warn them. They're sheltering her here and they don't know!

"No, Peeta. She's not a –"

She doesn't know! "Don't trust her, Delly!" I cry frantically. "I did, and she tried to kill me. She killed my friends. My family. Don't even go near her! She's a mutt!" A hand reaches in and snatches her backward, the door slamming shut, but I have to warn her. Warn all of them. "A mutt!" my scream pitches upward. "She's a stinking mutt!"

Howling and thrashing against the manacles, I roar my warning. The whisper wails alongside me, joyfully shrieking into oblivion until my vision begins to swim and I collapse back against the bed, chest heaving and throat ravaged. I'm failing again. More people will fall to her because I don't save them. My arms burn from straining against the shackles but I writhe and bellow, the whisper's hiss my entire existence. Mindlessly, I continue to scream and thrash, weeping hot tears of fury and desolation for my lost family and friends, for my vanished home, for my own hopeless, useless, existence.


	12. Chapter 12

"Start with Uri," Delly suggests. The shudder wracks my body, wrists jerking against the restraints and tears slipping down my cheeks. Her hand lifts, but I whimper, clenching my fists against clawing for her. _rake claw scrape tear_ She withdraws it slowly, but the sympathy shining from her eyes prods the whisper to a manic scream. Grinding my teeth together, I fight against the bile.

For about a week and a half now, I've spent my time strapped to this bed, alternately shrieking, thrashing, threatening, and weeping. A parade of jumpsuited strangers filters through, feeding me, studying me, monitoring me. Dr. Aurelius tried several times in the first few days to talk to me, but his constant reassurances that I am "completely safe," send the whisper into a frenzy of rage and he's given up even approaching me anymore, though I'm sure he's perched permanently behind the mirror.

Three days ago, Delly cautiously peeked around the door. The whisper immediately pitched to a panic, my wrath and terror pairing with my frantic need to warn her of the danger until I lost myself in howling, writhing grief. But she stayed. The whisper screamed its fury and I fought to reach her, to tear her, to claw her. But she stayed. Tears creeping down her face, she stayed. Hands trembling at her mouth, she stayed.

The next day she knocked, but waited out of sight. "Peeta?" Her voice was calm and gentle, no fear and no accusation. "Can I come in?"

Pulling deep breaths and forcing my mind to focus on the divots in the ceiling, I clenched my teeth together until I could speak without screaming. "Give me a second," I responded, my voice trembling.

After a few minutes, I'd called her in and she'd come around the door, beaming her sunny smile and radiating joy to see me. At first, we'd just sat quietly, her glow of happiness so foreign to my past few months that I spent a good chunk of time trying to control my breathing, sobbing gasps catching in my throat and tears working down my face. Once I trusted myself to speak, we'd made small talk, skirting around anything of importance, but her presence like a healing balm to my shattered mind. She doesn't expect anything, doesn't hide anything, doesn't threaten anything. The whisper is a low grumble, angry and resentful but not bloodthirsty. After about fifteen minutes, she'd stood up to leave, but promised to return the next day.

Yesterday, she'd stayed longer. We'd talked about the awful food, the terrible jumpsuits, the windowless rooms. She'd spoken about meeting new friends in school, about an interest in working with the district's science division, about how welcoming the district has been to the newcomers. I tried to ask her questions about District 13, but the whisper raged against the idea and I quickly retreated to an interest in the kitchens instead.

Just before she left, she smiled and clenched her hands together to keep from patting my arm. "It's so good to see you, Peeta," she'd said, and her bright blue eyes had brimmed with tears. "I missed you so much. Especially after…" she'd cut herself off, eyes flying to mine regretfully.

Locking my jaw and clenching my fists, I'd fought against the waves of grief and loss. But I'd stayed in control of myself. Meeting her eyes, I'd risked saying, "I miss them, too." The cold emptiness in my stomach yawned wide, but I didn't spiral into it. "I wish I'd been able to tell them…" but I had to stop, the whisper clawing at me.

"I'll come tomorrow," she promised. "You can tell me what you wanted to say to them. Rest up, practice it in your head. See if you can do it. I'll come and listen, and you can say it."

So I had. And today, when she knocked, and gave me time to regain control before coming in, she'd sat quietly and waited until I was ready to begin. My thoughts are a tangled jumble, regret and fear fighting with anger and hurt. I worked all night to sort out my own thoughts from those of the whisper, but speaking the words means focusing on them and my mind jitters and skips when I try to. Taking Delly's advice, I take a deep breath and close my eyes.

"I wish I could tell Uri I love him," I begin haltingly. But my voice strengthens as I think of my brother, of our complicated relationship, but also how much I miss him. "I worry he doesn't know. I don't want him to think I don't understand why he treated me like he did. That I don't know who he really is. I want him to know I love him, and I always will."

A tiny piece of darkness breaks away from my heart and I imagine it glowing as it floats up and away, carrying my message to my brother, wherever he is. A slow tear creeps down my cheek and I open my eyes to see Delly, eyelashes sparkling with tears, biting her lip and hands clenched in her lap. "I'm sorry," I apologize quickly. "Is this too hard to hear?"

She shakes her head, tears scattering in glittering droplets. "Next your mom?" she asks.

Nodding slowly, I focus on the blanket spread across my stomach. My fingers pick and worry at the threads, constantly in motion. "I want to tell my mother… I want to tell her…" my breath catches and I swallow hard. "I want her to know she deserves our love. She helped me learn to be kind, to be patient, to have compassion. She taught me to understand people are fighting battles every day and need our help. I wouldn't be who I am…" But here, I lose my words. "Who I was," I amend in a cracked whisper.

"Oh, Peeta," Delly trembles.

My hands shake, the restraints rattling and jangling. I stare down at my hands, and I don't recognize them. They've done things I'd never have imagined possible. And all the treasured things they'll never do again. They'll never hug my father again. They'll never hold Jasper's children. They'll never tuck a loose hair into her braid –

I jerk backwards, my breath a hissing gasp, staring wide-eyed into Delly's alarmed gaze. The whisper blares its siren wail and I feel my control slipping. My hands strain to reach my head, it feels like it will fly apart if I don't hold it together. I thrash against the bed, crying out for help, and Delly, terrified, leaps away as the orderlies rush in. My terror turns into fury and I spit and scream, hauling against the manacles and pulling to free myself, shrieking my threats and swearing vengeance until I lose myself completely and I'm nothing but rage and hunger and fire.

I worry Delly won't visit me again, will be scared off or forbidden. But the knock and soft voice calling from outside arrive just after lunch. I invite her in almost immediately, only needing a few deep breaths and a couple sharp tugs against the restraints. Her smile lights the room as she enters, bright blue gaze concerned, but not disgusted or reproachful. I tremble a little with the relief of it, and I feel my own lips curve up ever so slightly, the foreign expression feeling strange and brittle.

She takes a seat next to the bed, hands folded in her lap, lips pressed together to wait for me to be ready to talk. I meet her gaze and nod, not quite able to speak but wanting her to know how glad I am she came back. After a minute, I thank her for coming to see me and she shrugs it off, her hands clamped together to keep from reaching out to pat my arm. I remember her hands, I realize. Constantly reaching out, always ready to help, always ready to pull you in closer, include you. The idea that's been buzzing in the back of my head clicks into certainty and I meet her eyes with resolve.

"Delly, I need a favor."

"Of course," she replies, immediately and predictably. "What do you need?"

"I want to talk to F-Finnick," I curse myself for stumbling over the name and her bright gaze clouds over with worry.

"Oh, I don't know," she says hesitantly. "Do you think you - you really want that already?"

"I'm positive," I say, directing my words to the mirror. "Please," I turn back to Delly. "Yesterday, when I was talking to you… I thought – I thought of-" I break off, unable to approach the thought without enraging the whisper. "I thought of something that surprised me," I finish lamely.

Delly's grin flashes. "You don't say," she smirks mischievously and I feel the answering tug at my lips as my belly thrums with the unexpected lightness. I can't remember the last time I smiled.

"I think, if you come too, I think I have some questions I want to ask him." Delly's calm acceptance of everything that seems so unthinkable to me, her bright outlook despite what's happened, her solid and deep friendship stretching back to when we were small, all these make me think I can face a conversation that causes a jittery nausea when I consider it. "What's the worst that can happen?" I appeal to the silent mirror.

It takes three days. Three days of enduring Dr. Aurelius chattering at me about "safe words" and "calming techniques." This man has never lived above ground, has never been outside an armed and barricaded wall without protection. Has never even known real hunger. How he thinks he can help me deal with my splintered and shrieking mind is beyond my understanding.

But he's good practice. I work on listening to him while combating the whisper's howling demands for his destruction. I find ways to keep my hands from clawing toward his eyes, practice isolating my focus to an innocuous thought when the rage threatens to consume me. I harden my resolve until I can keep a calm façade while he ignites my fury with his reassurances that these people can keep me safe. The danger is here, the threat is within. And they have no idea.

Finally, Delly arrives in my room, all aflutter with anxiety. She perches on her seat, hands clasped together to keep from stroking my arm. "Peeta," she begins earnestly. "I'm so impressed you are doing this. So proud of how far you've come."

"I'm just talking to someone, Delly," I shrug. It's starting to make me feel anxious, how much everyone is making of this conversation. As though I'm a pet that deserves praise for not chewing a visitor's shoes to pieces.

"I know," she nods, "but do you remember, that day you talked to me about Uri?" She meets my eyes, her own blue gaze glowing with pride. "You were worried it was too awful for me to hear. You were concerned about me. You're in there, Peeta. You're fighting to come back." Her voice shreds into a whisper, her eyes darting to the mirror. "I'm sorry," she murmurs.

"Don't be," I tell her, my breath catching in my throat. I close my eyes against the roiling chaos her words stirred up, but I cling to the thought. An echo bounces forward from deep in my memory, one that my mind skitters away from and I can't get a good look at it. _You have to find a way back. You have to remember what's real._ Whose words are those?

But there's no time to worry about it. Dr. Aurelius enters, clipboard in hand, and smiles at Delly. "Hello, dear," he greets her and she smiles back, resting her hand on his wrist as she says hello. "Peeta," he turns to me, still smiling, but earnestness practically sweating off him. "Remember, you can ask him to leave at any time, you can ask for any help you need." I squirm a bit, feeling like an idiot, but I meet Delly's eyes and she mouths his words in perfect timing, "And remember, you are completely safe." I duck my head to hide the quiver at my lips, and Aurelius nods proudly, a job well done.

But the lightness floods out of me in the next second when the door swings open and Finnick walks slowly into the room. He is looking behind him, his hand not letting go of something until the last second. "It's fine," he says into the hall. "Don't worry."

His voice sends a shudder through my legs and I grip the sides of the bed when he turns his familiar sea green eyes to mine. Memories flash through my mind, him pulling me from the pedestal into the clawing seawater, thrusting his trident at me while we battled the monkeys, scheming with Johanna to leave me in the arena. But his eyes hold mine. He looks into me with untold depths of sorrow, seeing straight through me, and the layers of heartbreak in his gaze hush the rising fury of the whisper.

"Hello, Peeta," he says, his voice low and steady, but without the tone of condescension as though approaching a wild animal. "I'm glad you wanted to talk to me. I've missed you."

I can't quite breathe properly, the struggle claiming all my focus. From over his shoulder, Delly nods her encouragement. "Finnick," is all I can manage. He waits patiently, hands clasped loosely in front of him, head very slightly to the side. He looks well, healthy. And then it hits me. Annie is outside, he has been reunited with her. His patience is from experience, he deals with this all the time. He loves her even though she fights this battle too.

The discordant idea jars loose my original thought, the reason I wanted to see him. I can't reconcile this man with the bottomless compassion to love a mad girl, with the murderous schemer in my mind. And if that memory is not real…

"Finnick." My voice is stronger. "Thank you for coming to see me. I'm sorry I'm so – this." I take a steadying breath and start again. "I wanted to ask you something. About the arena."

"Of course. I'd love to help." His words are calm, but his eyes are wary. This, more than anything, works its way through the screaming fog beginning to cloud my thinking.

"I'll try not to upset her," I assure him, and he relaxes slightly, nodding gratefully. Delly raises clasped hands to her trembling lips, pride shining from her teary gaze. Keeping her in my line of sight, I pull strength from her. "You saved me when I hit the force field. Brought me back to life."

He nods. "Your heart stopped and you weren't breathing. I used a life-saving technique we use on drowning victims in my district." His lips quirk up. "They don't usually smell as much like roasted meat."

I feel an answering tug at the corners of my mouth. "Why?"

He meets my gaze steadily and answers calmly. "We were all there to protect you. You were needed for our plan to work."

Dr. Aurelius gasps and shoots him a reproachful look, his alarmed gaze darting to me. I feel the tingle of the rage building behind my eyes, but I fight it. I concentrate on the trembling, red-haired girl who must be outside the door. "Why did you need me?" I choke out.

He pauses, considering, but I know he is debating how much to tell me, not how to lie. Finally, he puffs out a little resigned sigh and shrugs. "We needed her. And Katniss wouldn't be able to go on if you were killed."

His words crash and echo inside my head, the image of warm gray eyes holding mine while my heart bangs against my ribs. My voice, "No one really needs me." And then hers, "I do. I need you." The whisper rages into a shrieking torrent of bloodthirst and I'm lost, the madness igniting deep within and I scream and thrash and writhe until the fury is all that I am.


	13. Chapter 13

"I do. I need you."

The words haunt my dreams, my waking hours, my every moment. It's a constant struggle to refocus my mind on something that won't set the whisper to shrieking, though I lose the battle more often than I did in the past few days. The tremble has returned to my hands and the splintery feeling in my mind is worse. Delly leaves in tears almost every time she visits.

But, through all the raging chaos, I can follow the thought that is sparking all the fury. She isn't a superhuman being developed in a lab to visit destruction on the world. Every time I look at that closely, it sends me spiraling. But the crashing importance of this idea drives me toward it over and over until I'm gasping on the bed, throat raw from screaming and head throbbing from burst blood vessels. Finally, in the quiet left behind because I've howled my voice away and my muscles have become jelly, I'm able to find a space to think about it clearly.

Yet another thing I believed to be true has been shown to be a lie. She is not a demon, he was not trying to betray me. Nothing I know as real can be trusted. My mind has broken into scattered pieces I can no longer rely upon to navigate me through these dangerous waters.

 _You have to find your way back. You have to remember what's real._ My cell in the Capitol floats before my eyes, the assistant to Lichten crouched before me, desperate and hushed. It was him, he was the one who tried to warn me. But he was the one who was doing it to me. It makes no sense, that can't be right. The whisper chants gleefully as I struggle to comprehend.

Back in the Capitol, Lichten was keeping me submissive with something that drained my ability to think clearly, to process what was happening. At the same time, he was dosing me steadily with tracker jacker venom and intentionally altering my memories so I no longer know which really happened and which were planted in my mind by the Capitol. I have no way of telling which is which. Nothing I think is true can be trusted as real. A black hole opens in my stomach and I feel myself teeter for just a moment before plunging endlessly back through the darkness, falling without hope of ever landing. _falling falling falling falling_

The weight of despair is crushing. I stare listlessly at the pocked ceiling as the whisper hisses a joyful echo unendingly through the silence. _stranger killer madman prey_ I can't even find the strength to fear it any longer. My family is lost, my home is gone, I can't even be trusted to leave this room without hurting someone. What good can I be possibly be? My fingers pick restlessly at the blanket, the heavy sadness settling over me as I consider my life stretching out in front of me, bleak and sparse. Nothing but a burden to others.

The next time Delly visits, I can barely find the energy to hold a conversation. My focus keeps drifting and I just want to sleep, close my eyes and slip away from the gray world. Her voice shreds to silence and I turn my head back from my contemplation of the windowless wall. Her deep blue gaze holds such depths of worry and sadness that I instantly curse myself for my selfishness.

"Delly, I'm so sorry," I apologize wretchedly. I've made it even worse, I reprimand myself. "What were you saying about the generator?"

"It doesn't matter," she demurs. "Are you doing OK? You seem – I don't know. You seem better in some ways, but worse in others."

"No, Delly, I'm better. I'm so much better. Thanks to you," I watch her intently. I want her to know how much her care has meant to me. "If it weren't for you, who knows if I'd even still be here. Look at me," I demand, forcing a cheerful lift to my voice. "No screaming, no drugs. I even fed myself pudding yesterday," I declare with a wink.

Instead of cheering her up, my words bring tears springing to her eyes. "Oh, Peeta," she chokes.

My false optimism drains out of me. She is too bright, and too good of a friend not to see what's going on. I shrug despondently. "I just feel so lost," I tell her, my voice low and halting. "I don't know what's real around me, and, worst of all," I look away, my eyes riveted to the humming machines, "I don't know what's real about me."

She nods tearfully. "I can't imagine," she whispers. After a moment, she pulls her hand back from reaching for me. "Do you want me to tell you about yourself?" she offers.

I shake my head. "It just – it just makes it worse," I scratch out. "Because it's not true anymore. It's not who I am anymore."

Delly's trembling lips grip together. She sits straighter and fixes me with a blazing blue glare. "Peeta Mellark, don't you dare," she grits. "Don't you dare try and take my friend from me when I know he's in there. I know it's hard for you to face, but I see you every day. I see your despair at being a burden to others, because you want nothing more than to help everyone you know. I see you cringe from your fits because you want to be the strong man your brother was." I try to cut in, but she plows over me, her voice ringing through the room. "I see you fight to comfort me, even when you are so broken and so hurt, because you are the kind man your father raised." A hiccupping sob shreds her voice and her eyes fall. "I see all the people who knew you, mourning your illness, because everyone you ever met loved you for the gentle, joyful, magnetic person you were then, and who is still in there fighting to get back to them. Don't you dare give up on him. Don't you dare take him from us."

I stare mutely as she wrings her hands in her lap, a watery sniffle echoing in the heavy silence. The whisper rages in the quiet _liar lost imposter fraud_ but I fight it back, reaching for the memory of my father and the gentle pride that would shine from his eyes when he looked at me. How can I let him down like this? I can't give up this fight, no matter how long and hard the fight has been so far. I don't know which things are true, but that doesn't mean nothing is true. I can be stronger, I can make my father and Delly proud again.

"Delly," and she lifts her eyes to mine, hopelessness and misery awash in sparkling tears. "I'm so sorry. Will you help me?"

Like the sun breaking from behind stormclouds, her smile beams out through the room and the darkness immediately seems lighter. Impulsively, she reaches out a hand and clasps my clenched fist, the first human contact since I was captured that didn't demand something of me. A shudder runs up my arm, but it's a warm buzz and I feel it creep into my blood and fizz into the shadowy corners of my heart. For the first time in months, I feel hope.

The next day, Dr. Aurelius is peering at me from the end of the bed. He almost vibrates with good intention and, with my commitment to Delly ringing in my ears, I greet him politely. He may be able to offer some help, and I clearly am not making progress on my own.

"Good morning, Peeta, good morning," he smiles. "Such growth, such good news. Such strength! You are on a positive road, Peeta, you are making headway!" My smile feels a little stiff, but I channel my mother and keep it pinned in place. "We are so excited," he continues, his exuberance bubbling through his mellow voice. "We would like to try a new therapy today."

"No more drugs," I say automatically. I already can't find myself in my mind, I don't want to keep fuzzing the lines and making it even harder.

The corners of his mouth droop almost comically and he deflates before my eyes. "I hear what you're saying, and I respect it," he begins, a wheedling tone creeping in. "I want you to remember you are perfectly safe here. Perfectly safe. This new idea was proposed by a young medic and it really does sound like a good one. I really would like for you to consider it."

He looks so earnest, so hopeful, I have a hard time clinging to my resolve. "Tell me about it," I say resignedly, and he lights up with delight.

"Well," he leans forward eagerly, "we know the Capitol used tracker jacker venom to alter your natural memories to become threatening and fearful." I nod, but my focus is on quieting the whisper as it begins to ramp up. "So the idea was proposed," he goes on, "that perhaps we could alter them back." He has my full attention all of a sudden.

"Is that possible? I thought you said that was impossible?"

"Well, we don't know a lot about it," he admits. "But the new idea is to dose you with a relaxing drug, perhaps morphling, and, in your relaxed state, recall a memory that has become fearful and see if we can counter the effects."

I consider this plan. Could it work? I have no idea, but I do know it can't possibly get worse. I'm in the unfortunate position of having nothing to lose. The whisper is furious _liar traitor don't trust tricks traps_ and that more than anything convinces me.

"Let's try it," I say wearily.

Aurelius is like a kid with a new toy, his excitement is palpable. Jumpsuits file in immediately and begin setting up equipment, laying out supplies, and wheeling in a screen with a case of tapes. I watch all of this with mounting apprehension as the whisper rages and screams for blood. Just as I feel I'm about to lose my grip, Dr. Aurelius turns to me with his earnestness and desire to help radiating from him in waves. He keeps his hand low, beneath the edge of the bed so I can't see it, but I know he holds a syringe and it makes my teeth clench.

"Now Peeta," he says in his calm, measured voice. "Remember, you are perfectly safe. We are all here to help you. Are you quite all right with this?"

I nod, not trusting myself to speak. I keep my eyes from the mirror, not wanting to think about who might be behind it.

"Then let's begin." He steps to the side and the screen pops to life. The picture is dark, two figures are huddled close together, talking. Light fights its way in through a small opening and I see that it's a cave. My breath catches and I clench my teeth against the scream that begins in the back of my throat.

"Did I ever tell you about how I got Prim's goat?" The familiar voice reaches from the screen, through my chest and squeezes its icy grip around my heart. And then, a cold needle in my arm and my muscles, coiled and ready to explode, suddenly relax and a hazy glow works its way through my blood.

The whisper, screaming madness that echoes and splinters in my mind, can't find any traction in my tranquil limbs and lazy contemplation as they try to pull the fury down and smother it. I feel like two armies are waging war in my head and I keep switching sides. A series of images begins to flicker behind my eyes, a slideshow of events I can't identify as fantasy or reality. Katniss laying cold rags on my head as I shiver with fever in the cave. Katniss clawing at the bandages, ripping them away while I scream, and smearing the blood over her cheeks in triumph. Her eyes glowing with pride as she tells of her mother and sister nursing the sick goat back to health. The warring images continue against the background of her voice, telling the story of bringing the goat to her sister so long ago.

With a juddering stagger, my mind slips under the waterline of my control. I drift, frozen and senseless as the conflict rages behind my eyes. I hear my heartbeat as a slow, thunderous throb in the distance. I can feel my eyelashes slog through the air as they drag sluggishly up and down my unmoored rolling eyeballs.

Decades later, I make out a long, low wailing in the distance. It creeps closer, a deep squealing call that repeats itself endlessly, pulling at me, dragging at me, forcing me to acknowledge it until it grabs my attention and digs claws in deep.

"Peeta?"

I roll my eyes over to see Dr. Aurelius, perched anxiously at my side and watching me fearfully. I stare at him blankly while relief floods across his face. Unable to find my balance, my mind feels like a sea creature rising slowly from the depths to heave itself onto the shore. Images and voices spark and echo as they fade into the distance, I can't quite grasp them or make any sense of them.

"Peeta, can you hear me?"

A swarm of jumpsuits, eyes alight with fervent anxiety, crowd around the bed as I flounder toward awareness. They breathe their heavy anticipation into the air around me as they await some monumental awareness or sharp observation. I draw a ragged breath and they lean forward eagerly to catch my whisper, pens poised over clipboards.

"Dr. Aurelius," my voice is scratchy and dry. "Was the goat wearing a pink ribbon?"


	14. Chapter 14

"I want to talk to Finnick again."

Dr. Aurelius pauses his busy fiddling. He has spent the last few days bombarding me with help. Ever since I tried the morphling therapy, he has been relentless in his quest to make me feel safe. Right now, he is fussing over a report of my sleep observance, trying to piece together the screams and mutterings into a key that will unlock my madness. At my blurted request he looks up sharply.

"Now, Peeta, I don't know," he hesitates. "You are, of course, perfectly safe, and it would not present any kind of danger, but I worry that it might become a setback to the excellent progress you've made so far."

"I know, and thank you," I reply, willing to talk my way around his reluctance. "The thing is," I lower my gaze to my clenched hands, though I keep careful watch through my thick eyelashes. "I think it would make me feel safer, more secure, if I could know I can talk to him without losing control." Have I always been so manipulative? _lies tricks false liar_

He brightens predictably. "Well, now," he harrumphs, "I suppose that would be quite a success for you, wouldn't it? I suppose we could gather all kinds of data about your reactions if we had another interaction to study." He might as well have a thought bubble floating over his head he's so transparent.

It's only been one day since I asked and a jumpsuit is here, asking me if I'd like extra restraints. I refuse, I've gone over this conversation in my head multiple times and I'm able to make it all the way through without losing it. I do ask her to unbandage my wrists, though, even if they're so close to healed the metal doesn't bite anymore. There's still enough sting to remind me to focus.

Just a few minutes later, the door opens again and I grit my teeth when he enters. We're alone this time, in the room anyway. I'm sure the mirror is holding back hordes of observers, pens eagerly trembling over hungry clipboards. _vultures predators snakes grabbing_

Finnick stands in the middle of the room and waits for me to speak first. He is more relaxed this time, though still wary. I study him carefully, from the bronze curls to the ocean colored eyes, down to the slightly nervous fidget in his leg as he waits through my appraisal. He is here because he was part of a rebel plot to overthrow the Capitol. He was to rescue Katniss from the arena, but not me. They left me for the soldiers. There is enough evidence for me to believe this is true.

"Hello, Finnick, thank you for coming again." I try not to taste the bitterness in my words. I feel so angry all the time.

"I'm glad to see you, Peeta," he responds in a measured voice. "Believe it or not, you actually look a lot better. Do you feel better?"

"Yes, thank you," I answer stiffly. The whisper pricks at me, raging against my tolerance for this person who left me to be captured. "How is Annie?" I ask, surprising myself.

"She's better too," he says. "Thanks. One day at a time, much like you I imagine."

My hands spasm in clenching flails, impatient with this chatter. "They never questioned her," I say abruptly. "She didn't go through any of this. She never screamed."

Finnick watches me steadily, but his sea-green gaze holds a smolder. "Maybe not," he allows mildly. "But she suffers. And I don't like to see her unhappy. I will do whatever I have to do to protect her. From anything I see as a threat."

His words are meant to caution me, but they make a funny, ringing echo in my head, as if reverberating from my own thoughts. _protect her_ I shake my head to clear it as the whisper snaps against the gentler murmur. The tremor in my hands intensifies, but I fight to form the question. "Did I – was I like that?" I don't know how to ask without igniting a firestorm in response. "Before?"

Finnick's glance darts to the mirror, but he tips his head thoughtfully, considering how to proceed. "Do you remember why you were in the Quarter Quell?" he asks nonchalantly.

"They reaped victors, right?" I ask. "Wait, that doesn't make sense." I pause in confusion. Survivors go home as victors, they live their lives out in peace and wealth.

"No, you're right," he nods. "For the Quarter Quell they changed the rules. The only names in the balls were those of past victors. That's why I was there again, why you were there again. Why…" but he cuts himself off when I feel my eyes widen and my jaw clench. "But that's not what I mean," he continues. "I mean, do you remember that Haymitch was the one who was reaped, not you."

"Yes," I answer readily, "I do remember that." I feel pleased to have a memory corroborated. It's clear in my head, how anguished he looked when his name was drawn.

"So why were you in the arena?" Finnick asks, his sharp gaze drilling into mine.

My mind slips off the question, I can't get a grip on it. Was I not in the arena the second time? Was Haymitch not reaped? A murky pool of half-formed thoughts spark and glitter, but nothing surfaces to help me answer this simple question. Finnick sees me struggle, watches patiently while I try to make dissenting facts fit together. The whisper, antagonized by my increasing anxiety, adds its shriek to the din in my head. I begin to shake and I squeeze my eyes shut against the scraping darkness fighting to pull me under its power.

Finnick's voice is a gentle murmur. "You volunteered, Peeta. You volunteered to go in again."

I lift my eyes to his, and he holds my gaze steadily. I can feel a cold, expanding void in my belly as I anticipate his answer to my question. "Why?" I whisper fearfully.

"To protect her."

A tremor shakes my body and I clench my teeth together, the trembling threatening to shake loose my control. The whisper rages at me to scream, to tear and claw and voice its fury, but I hunch myself tight, I dig into the recesses of my mind and I hold on. My eyes wheel around the room, flitting from machines where they control me, to the mirror where they pry and spy, to the restraints keeping me helpless and cowed, to Finnick who watches me, peeling back the layers of resistance and denial, laying bare what must be the truth.

I shudder and gasp, letting the thought work its way through my system until I'm back in control. Maybe not completely in control, but I'm not a wailing mess. Not on the outside anyway. It's a while before I trust myself to speak, but Finnick waits patiently. Occasionally his eyes flick to the mirror, and I notice he has an earpiece tucked beneath those bronze curls. But he gives small, tight, almost unnoticeable shakes of his head and I guess he's refusing requests, or perhaps demands. It quiets the riotous paranoia that rakes through my every thought.

Finally, I meet his eyes, and I croak the one word question again. "Why?"

He shrugs and shakes his head. "Honestly, I couldn't figure it out myself," he says. "From the first Games it was obvious, you were ass over teakettle for her," he seems not to notice the tremor that threatens to shake my molars loose, "but it didn't really ring true that she reciprocated your feelings. It just always seemed forced, you know?" I'm frozen, locked in rigid palsy as his words play havoc with my mind. He sweeps on, "During the tour, it was the worst. She looked like a wooden puppet on strings. A lot of people bought it, they wanted it to be true so much, but a lot of us figured it for strategy." He turns his eyes back to me, watching me thoughtfully, measuring the effect his words are having on me. I'm sweating and shaking, fists gripping handfuls of the bedding, and jaw clenched to keep in the screams. But I'm keeping them in.

"Do you want me to go on?" he asks gently. I fight the tension in my shoulders holding my neck rigid and manage a jerky nod. He reaches for my clenched fist, but withdraws his hand to his lap without touching me, darting a glance at the mirror. "Ok," he says softly. "Ok. So, you two finished the tour and returned home. But weird rumors were drifting through the nation. Rumors that your district was being punished, that other districts were rising up against the Capitol. That this was blossoming into something that was going to explode into something huge. And then, they announced the Quarter Quell." He pauses, eyes dark and angry. I picture a crashing wave in a green jungle, all the power of the sea rising behind it.

"Rumor became fact, whispers became plans," he says slowly. "You only have one female victor in your district, and it was decided she was needed to be the face of the rebellion. So she needed to be rescued from the arena. She already had a romanticized image and the public, hungry for a symbol, had latched onto her story. Your story." He pauses and gauges my condition again. I'm trembling, but hanging on. "Plans were already in motion when her name was being pulled from the ball. And then, when Haymitch's name was drawn, you volunteered to go in his place. You loved her that much, Peeta. You always have. It's who you are."

I feel a hot tear track down my clenched jaw and my tenuous grasp on control slips dangerously. Images sparkle and crash against one another. Too many and too dissonant. My heart pounds a frantic rhythm against my ribs and I become aware of a heavy, deep emptiness in my chest. Like a hole where something is missing. I gasp for breath.

"I'm sorry, Peeta," Finnick's voice echoes through the tangle of my mind to glimmer like a lifeline back to reality. I clutch at it, clawing my way back to control. "That was too much. They said it was too much." He hangs his head remorsefully, but then he returns his gaze to mine. "But you deserve to know," he says defiantly. "You would be furious with me for not telling you if you only knew it." The corners of his finely chiseled lips quirk at this conundrum. The small detail of that quick, lopsided smile flashes in my mind. It's familiar, and warm, and helps to ground me again.

"I don't understand," I say shakily. "You said it yourself, she didn't love me. Why did I love her so much if she didn't love me back? She tried to kill me in the arena, she left me there to let the Capitol capture me. She must have known what would happen to me after she left. How could I love her so much when she was so indifferent to me?"

"No, Peeta," Finnick shakes his head firmly. "I was wrong. I didn't know it until too late, but I was wrong." His face is animated with his need to convince me. "You didn't see her when your heart stopped. She was devastated. Wrecked. And when I brought you back," he smiles faintly. "Well, she was definitely not indifferent."

"It doesn't make sense," I protest. "How could she leave me, then?"

"She had no choice! She was knocked unconscious when the force field blew, do you remember that part? The whole arena came apart, and the rebels pulled her out of there. I wanted to get you too, but we were all useless. Paralyzed." He stares at me as I hang on his words, trying to hear even a shred of something I recognize. "I'm so sorry, Peeta." His voice shakes with guilt. "She didn't know. But I did." He swallows hard. "I tried to protect you both, but I just couldn't do it. I'm so sorry." His whisper scrapes into silence and I notice his hands are shaking.

Some instinct from deep in my heart fights its way to the surface. A need to comfort. "Don't worry, Finnick," I offer. "I don't remember anything you need to apologize for. Freebie."

His eyes dart up to me. "You sounded like yourself just then," he says quietly. "I miss you."

"Me too," I say with an attempt at a shrug. "What about her?" I ask. "Does she miss me?"

He shakes his head dolefully. "She had to leave," he says somberly. "She couldn't even stay here it was so bad." This is odd to me, though. If she cares so much, why did she leave again? It bangs around in my head, trying to find something to match up to, to make sense with. It only finds the fury of the whisper though, a chanting rage demanding to be slaked.

I veer away from it. "It must have been awful for you," I say softly. "Not knowing what was happening with Annie."

Finnick flinches, but nods slowly.

"They didn't hurt her," I assure him. "I think they knew she didn't have anything for them." A thought bubbles up to knock against this. "Though, they figured out pretty soon I didn't know anything either," I say, puzzled. "They just kept hurting me for no reason."

Finnick shakes his head again. "They had a reason," he counters. "They wanted Katniss to know you were being hurt." A dark hole opens in my belly and his words echo hollowly. He continues, oblivious. "They knew you didn't have any information, they just wanted to break Katniss."

A swirl of despair spins up from my chest, tinting with fury as it whirls through my blood. I hear Finnick's voice from the past as if from a huge distance, telling me he saved my life for her. Thread telling me they kept me alive for her. Finnick now telling me I endured hell because of her.

The whisper can no longer be contained. Its rage shrieks free of my control and I tear apart, shattering into jagged shards of wrath and despair and howling, crashing pain.


	15. Chapter 15

On shaky legs, I wobble my way around the bed, one hand out for balance. I've been strapped down forever, I don't feel like I've moved under my own power in weeks. My prosthetic feels oddly longer than before, that's weird. The whisper hisses threats and warnings, but otherwise it feels good to be upright again. A little light-headed, but good.

One of the jumpsuits is watching carefully, a hand at the ready to catch me, but after two trips around the bed, I feel steady again. She grins encouragingly as I cockily brag I'm ready to use the restroom by myself.

Two guards come to help, one to stay inside with me, one for outside the door. I bury the twinge as the whisper needles that I have to be kept under heavy guard so I don't hurt anyone, but I'm able to hold my hands steady as I leave the room for the first time. Looking around curiously, I see two more rooms like mine, private with closing doors, and several beds with just curtains to keep out prying eyes. There aren't many people ill in District 13, it appears. In one of the beds as we go by, a young woman cradles a tiny bundle in her arms.

I'm drawn to a stop, fascinated by the miniscule fingers curling around her thumb. She looks up happily, but, seeing the guards, worry clouds her eyes and she tightens her hold protectively. Shame rushes up my neck to heat my cheeks and I turn away, swallowing the knot in my throat.

Back in my room, I sit on the edge of the bed, not ready to surrender my verticalness just yet. Dr. Aurelius chatters incessantly as he putters around the room, monitoring and checking and observing. I sit quietly, concentrating on calming the whisper and nodding or murmuring agreement often enough to keep Aurelius from engaging me directly.

"Peeta?"

Apparently not well enough. "I'm sorry, what was that?" I ask, trying to look as though I just didn't hear him over the buzzing machines.

"I said you seem distraught," he repeats. "The guards said your little outing went very well. Surely that's cause for celebration?"

"Yeah, it went brilliantly," I mutter. "I didn't attack anyone, so that's good, right?"

"Ah," he nods.

The last thing I want is to deeply analyze that comment with Aurelius. I have to be more careful. He's a fool, but he's intense. A quick prod in the back of my mind brings me up short. A fool? Why do I feel such contempt for him? Why am I angry and brusque with everyone? Is that just how I am?

"Peeta," he begins in a gentle voice. I groan inwardly, but lift my eyes to his attentively. "You know that you are perfectly safe here. Perfectly safe." His words grate against the whisper and it rages in response _. rip tear shred claw_ "I don't want to push you where you're uncomfortable, but I'd like to talk to you about something. Perhaps," he hesitates. "Would you consider attaching your restraints before this conversation?" he asks carefully.

The request bangs against the young woman's cringe away from me. I flush with shame again and grit my teeth against the furious threats of the hissing voice. Mutely, I attach one wrist by myself, then wait for him to do the other. I stare blankly at the wall as he tightens the straps, checking them twice.

"I want to talk to you, Peeta, about the morphling therapy."

I shake my head automatically. "I don't want to do it again," I say for what feels like the hundredth time. The whisper bites at the edges of my control. "It didn't make a memory less terrible," I tell him. "It wiped it out completely." He leans forward, practically itching for a clipboard, but he has to make do with just listening. "I don't know how to describe it," I fumble. "It's like there's a gauze curtain, and there are figures moving and speaking behind it, but I can't hear or see them. What if that was a real event that's gone forever now? I only have you guys telling me what you think is real, I can't tell by myself." I study the ceiling intently. "And anyway, I can't give up all my false memories," I say quietly. "They're awful, but they're the only ones I have." I shudder, imagining a world where my mind was filled with only the fog and numbness of the morphling recollection.

A flash of sunrise, a body in the water. Terrified eyes pleading desperately with mine as the life leached out of them. Another life given for her.

I grit my teeth together against the fury that rises in my throat. All these people died so she could escape the arena and never look back. All these lives, and she never even acknowledges their sacrifice.

Aurelius sees me tensing up, squeezing my eyes shut and trembling against the howling demand to shred and claw until no one is left.

"Peeta," his voice is gentle, and, for once, genuine. "I would like to show you something." I shake my head tiredly. I don't want to watch more tapes of her, of us, while they try to manipulate how I feel about it with drugs and tricks. "No drugs, and it's not a memory," he says. I watch him warily. "I know you feel lost," he says quietly. "I think you are missing a piece of you. I think you are missing her."

I shake my head rapidly against the thought, but, for once, he presses forward. "Please, trust me."

It's such an odd concept. Why would I trust him? Why would I ever trust anyone ever again? It's laughable in its absurdity. It makes so little sense that I actually shrug resignedly. Whatever. What could possibly be worse than what's happening right now?

He perks up right away and hurriedly gets together what he needs. I can feel the pressure of the increased attention from behind the glass, how many people just crowded in there to watch the latest experiment on the raging freak? I take slow, steadying breaths, gripping my fists in the bedding. Aurelius brings in the screen and fiddles for a moment, then turns to me. For once, he doesn't stink of the earnest need to reassure me. He just looks like a guy who wants to help.

"Peeta," he begins, "I really think much of the reason you are unable to feel like you are making progress toward remembering who you are, is that you are blocking out a significant portion of who that is." My breathing comes harder and faster. I'm sure I know where this is going, and the whisper is furious about it. "Regardless of how you feel now, and however that is, it's ok, but at one time you were deeply, truly in love with Katniss Everdeen."

He pauses to let the tremor work its way through me. I shudder and tremble as I fight to restrain the scream bubbling up in my throat. But I do. I fight it back, and I stay in control. Still shaking slightly, I meet the doctor's eyes and nod. I'm ready to go on.

He nods back and continues. "I want to show you a clip we taped earlier, before you were brought here. It has never been aired, the Capitol has never seen it, cannot have used it against you. This will be a true and natural vision of her for you. Do you believe what I'm saying?"

I nod slowly. _tricks schemes lies liars tricks_ The whisper is buzzing angrily, looking for the manipulation, trying to find the trick. An honest look at her, without the fear that it's a planted memory. I don't know how much I trust this idea, it could easily be another trap. But I'm so exhausted with distrusting every breath, every word, every thought. The whisper keeps a steady feed of hatred rolling through my mind at all times, I feel steeped in it. I honestly feel like I have nothing to lose.

Aurelius clicks on the screen and I tense immediately, a habit. Green. Trees and leaves and grass and shrubs. Green is everywhere. My breath catches in my throat and I blink rapidly, the sting of tears behind my eyes. The forest calls to me with its calming, welcoming coolness. I had no idea I missed it so much until just now. A group of people are sitting around in the shade of the trees as the sun glints brightly off the smooth surface of a small lake. The air is filled with birdsong, an echoing interlacing melody that pulls at my memory.

"Want to hear them do a real song?" Katniss stands and steps even further back into the leafy shade. I grip the sides of the bed, clenching my jaw. I fight to keep the shriek at bay as she stands, head down, gathering herself. But she doesn't change. No flaming wings sprout from her shoulders, she remains a girl standing in the dappled shade of the cool green forest.

 _Are you, are you_

 _Coming to the tree_

 _Where they strung up a man they say murdered three._

Her voice is sweet and gentle, steady and true. The birds are beginning to play with her melody themselves, singing it back and overlapping the tones. I have a sudden picture of a large, wiry man with laughing gray eyes and gentle hands. He stands outside my backdoor, talking with my father as I listen from the safety of his aproned back. They are laughing and teasing each other and the man, it's Katniss' father, squats down to smile into my eyes.

"Want to see a trick?" he asks with a wide grin. I nod eagerly and he stands tall, clearing his throat. He glances around the back alley, whistling a low, warbling tone. The mockingjays begin to answer, whistling back as he smiles. And then he begins to sing.

 _Are you, are you_

 _Coming to the tree_

 _Where the dead man called out for his love to flee_

As his voice rises and swirls through the air, the birds sing back, their calls looping and churning together to complement and match his own. I stand, breathless as the magic works around me.

 _No stranger would it be_

 _If we met up at midnight in the hanging tree._

By the end of his song, the birds had fallen silent, a hush filling the alley as they listen to the song themselves. On the tape, as she finishes and the last notes hang in the air, they pay her the same honor of silence.

The room comes back into focus around me. Dr. Aurelius watches me attentively, the stillness heavy around us as well. "I know that song," I say wonderingly. "Her father sang it. I heard him once, at my father's bakery. I was little, a first year, I'd heard a rumor that the birds went silent when he sang, and damn if they didn't." I look dazedly to Aurelius. "That's where it started."

"What started, Peeta?" he asks.

I shake my head, unwilling to share this yet. "Sorry, nothing," I say. "I'm just kind of confused still." It's enough for him, and he claps his hands together and begins chattering about what a great success it's been. I tune him out and concentrate on my new, blossoming thought. The singing. It was the singing that first snagged me for her. I shake my head, trying to keep the whisper from screaming so loudly I can't think. I remember her singing.

This thought occupies me for the rest of the afternoon. I'm distracted when Delly comes to visit, and I barely touch my dinner. I remember her singing. I remember my tiny, childish heart swelling with an undefinable want, a confusing buzz of happiness. I answer Aurelius' questions as well as I can, trying to seem engaged when all I can think of is that I remember her singing.

Night falls and I'm too restless to sleep. After what seems like hours I press the call button and request the guards to accompany me down the hall to the restroom. I need to walk. That too, echoes with a haunting familiarity, setting me even more on edge. As we make our way down the hall, I try my best to keep my eyes from the bed where the young mother cringed away from me, but she's no longer there. I breathe a sigh of relief and feel some tension drain from me as the first guard sweeps inside to check if anyone is there. He nods for me to enter, but I hesitate.

"Look," I say sheepishly. "I get it, I really do, but we're who knows how deep underground, no windows to escape from, no one is in there, there's nowhere to go. Is it possible," my eyes drop to the floor. "Can I just, please, go in alone? I promise I'll call for help if I feel at all out of control."

The guards hesitate, conferring quietly, before grinning at me understandingly. "Go on, then," he growls. "Call out if you need us, though, ok?"

"Promise," I say with relief and push through the doors into the empty room. As I stand in the quiet, unobserved for what must be the first time in a century, I breathe easier. I wonder if I can convince Aurelius to let me outside? Ever since the tape, the need to be outdoors has been an itch under my skin.

"I'm not their slave." The words are muffled and confusing. I look around for the threat, drawing a breath to call for help.

"I am." The call freezes in my throat. It's Katniss' voice. Is she here? The sounds are coming from the other side of the wall. "That's why I killed Cato…and he killed Thresh…and he killed Clove…and she tried to kill me." The words send images spinning through my head, smashing into each other and screaming against my skull. I lean against the cold wall to keep from crashing to the floor. The sound comes more clearly now. "It just goes around and around, and who wins? Not us. Not the districts. Always the Capitol. But I'm tired of being a piece in their Games."

The words blaze in flaming, scorching screams across my brain. We're on a rooftop. The city is lit beneath us, celebrating the beginning of the Games. Katniss is determined to return to her sister, but I am certain I won't ever leave the arena. I have decided to do everything I can, before I die, to be sure Katniss Everdeen is the victor. I only want to finish my life as myself, not some twisted puppet playing the Capitol's game.

Katniss didn't understand, she only knew she would do whatever it took to go home. I feel her words now as blows. She understands. She finally sees. And I – I am the twisted and broken puppet bearing no resemblance to myself. I begin to shake and I can feel the whisper's scream taking me. I'm not myself, I am only rage and destruction and hate. I feel the darkness close over me and I use my last breath to call the guards. As they rush inside, I hear the gunshot.


	16. Chapter 16

Sitting on the edge of my bed, I watch Delly as she paces the small room. She's talking about one of the teachers in school, how he has a habit of biting his upper teeth over his lip while squinching his nose up to resettle his glasses, reminding her of a rabbit. But she is clearly distracted, babbling nonsense to keep from talking about something she thinks will upset me. No one knows what I heard last night. I'm sure she's trying to avoid telling me what I heard happen on the television through the wall. Just as I take a breath to cut in, she turns to me and makes the face he does.

My shout of laughter catches me so off guard that it turns into a choking gasp and I cough for a few seconds, helpless and watery eyed. When I regain the ability to breathe, I look up to see her watching me, blue eyes glowing with happiness. Her hand reaches for mine, but she withdraws it cautiously.

"Peeta," she grins, "you sounded exactly like you!"

Unsteadily, I reach for her hand and she clasps mine warmly. I'm so unused to human contact, it sets my whole arm trembling, but I grip hers more firmly and focus on the warm strength of her fingers, the softness of her palm. "You know who would like that story?" I ask.

"Carney," we both finish, and she laughs merrily. I grin at her. "You two would drag that out for hours, pulling faces that would have Eirik and me rolling."

"While you two pretend to be too mature for it, but then tomorrow you'd do the face in class and Carney and I would get in trouble for disrupting when we get hysterical!"

We laugh together, but the pain of loss settles heavily over us both. She squeezes my hand again, but then she tips her head and shoots a glance at the mirror. They must be talking into her earpiece. She looks worried and turns back to me with concern.

"Peeta, they think you're making great progress," she tells me.

"Thanks, guys," I say to the glass. "Nothing like having absolutely zero privacy to make me feel safe." Even I'm surprised by the acid in my voice.

Delly draws back and is about to say something when there's a quiet knock on the door. Her eyes dart there and worry clouds over the sunny blue gaze. She grips my hand in both her own and leans in close. "You're ready," she says cryptically.

"Peeta? May I come in?" The voice from outside the door sends me gasping and my eyes fly to the glass. Has he been here the whole time? Has he been spying and watching in silence? Too cowardly to face me? The whisper roars into a fury, but it's nothing compared to my own rage.

"Do you… do you want to see him?" Delly asks. I grind my teeth together as I draw deep breaths between them. I am completely in control.

"He can come in," I growl. "I don't need the restraints, but will you please ask a guard to come in with us?"

She nods quickly, and after one last pat on my wrist she darts outside. In a moment, a guard comes around the door, and then, he follows as well.

I sit rigid on the bed, my eyes raking him from head to toe. Haymitch Abernathy has definitely seen better days. The drab jumpsuit emphasizes the sallowness of his skin, the sunken hollows of his eyes. His entire appearance is like a wrung-out rat. I watch him scornfully as he stands silently for my appraisal.

"You look good," he offers and I bite out a bitter laugh.

"Do I?" I ask. "Good in general? Or good for someone handed over to the tender attentions of the Capitol?" The rage simmers behind my eyes and it's everything I can do not to swing at him.

He flinches, but he doesn't drop his gaze. "Good for someone who's been caught in a war. Like we all have."

Like a geyser, the fury claws up my throat. "You should have told me!" I scream at him. "You had no right! I am not a puppet for you to make dance and bow however you like!" The guard steps forward, but I'm not losing it. I know precisely what I'm saying. "You are exactly like him," I hiss wrathfully. "You manipulate and use people to get what you want and you don't give a damn what happens to them in the process!" I'm on my feet, vibrating with anger and, as much as I want to deny it, hurt.

He stands with head bowed and hands clasped in front of him. When he looks up, my breath is taken away by the depth of sorrow in his gray Seam eyes. He only nods, unable to defend himself. His refusal to argue enrages me even more.

"This is the second time you've left me to die," I spit at him. "Choosing her over me."

He shrugs mildly. "You'd have killed me if I'd done anything else."

His words fly at me like knives and I grip the edge of the bed, my legs trembling and weak. I lower myself to sitting and slump feebly, head in my hands. He watches me in silence for a few moments, as if deciding what to tell me. I take a shuddering breath, squeezing my eyes shut against the searing pain.

"It wasn't originally her, you know." His voice is low and distant. "You were always the one with the silver tongue. The one a lot of people thought could lead a revolution. Thoughtful and strong, a good head and a good heart." I look up in open-mouthed bewilderment. What is he telling me this for?

"Many people wanted it to be you," he continues. "There was only one problem." He finally meets my eyes. His are gray steel. "It would never work. If we'd let her die in there, and you were saved, you'd have torn us all to shreds. You'd have been useless to us." My lungs heave for air, unable to work properly against the frank assessment of commodities he's detailing us as. I grasp at the one piece of information I feel I have a tenuous grip on.

"Two problems," I growl. "I never wanted any part of your war. Do you know how many people are dead because of you? Do you realize what you've done?"

He nods sadly. "I know this sounds like a brush-off," he admits, "but do you really feel up to debating this right now?"

"I don't care enough to debate it with you," I snap.

"What do you still care about?" he asks. The question draws me up short, such a weird thing to say. "You used to care," he continues. "You cared about everyone. It was your thing," he rolls his eyes. "You were all about other people, and above all, more than anything else in the entire, rotting world, you cared about her."

"I don't understand," I cry. "Everyone keeps saying it, but I don't understand." I hear the pleading creeping into my voice. "How could I love her so much, if she wanted nothing to do with me?"

Haymitch actually chuckles at this. "You wouldn't believe me if I told you how many times I ranted to her how she didn't deserve you." He shakes his head and gives a weak shrug. "I can't explain it, boy. You two didn't understand it yourselves. But you are wrong. She needed you."

I cringe against the echo, "I do. I need you." He lets this sit with me for a minute while I turn it over against the images bolting through my head. I have terrifying memories of her as a demon-like mutt, these I'm now certain are manufactured. But I have other memories I can't make any sense of. In many flashes she clings to me, she pleads for me to hold her at night, she looks to me for reassurance. But in others, she is wooden around me, she avoids me, she despairs at the thought of being with me. And in many, she is trying to kill me.

My eyes lift to meet Haymitch's sharp gray stare as he waits patiently for me to process.

"Dr. Aurelius thinks you're having trouble getting better because you can't deal with your feelings about Katniss," he says bluntly. "What do you think of that?"

I stare at him levelly. "I think I'm sick and tired of being defined by Katniss," I reply coldly.

His eyes hold an infinite sorrow, but only for a moment. He nods. "I get that," he shrugs. "She does tend to suck all the air from a room," he smiles crookedly. His voice changes to a lighter tone, "I've been asking around. Some people have saved scraps and used pieces, and I've put together a kind of sketchbook for you. It's nothing special, but I thought you might like it. What do you think?"

My breath catches at how strong my desire is for this unexpected gift. I'm still shaky from thinking about Katniss and tears sting behind my eyes. Not trusting my voice, I nod silently. He reaches into a pocket and draws out a small, clumsily bound collection of mismatched swatches of used paper and a set of pencils. My hands tremble as I take it from him and tenderly stroke the cover, overwhelmed by how much I want it, need it, even.

"Thank you," I breathe inadequately. I have no idea how to repay this gift.

He shrugs again. "I'm sorry it's not clean paper," he says sheepishly. "They're pretty tightly wound around here about waste."

I watch him carefully. I see him struggling to make amends, to somehow apologize for what he did to me. For what he let happen to me. The whisper hisses snarkily that he can never be forgiven, but I have a vision of him at my bedside, clasping my hand, and my feeling that he was one of only two people I knew that could understand me. Of course, both of those people betrayed me not long after.

"Thank you," I say again, and for now, I leave it at that.

A few hours later, a knock on the door jolts me from the world that absorbs me. "Come in," I call, staring down at the sketch I've been laboring over.

Finnick waits carefully in the doorway, eyes darting to my unshackled wrists. "Hey, Peeta," he says in his smooth drawl. "Is it ok if I come in?"

"Sure," I reply, pleased to realize it really is. "Stay out of reach though," I add, wickedly enjoying his discomfort at the statement. The whisper screams shrilly about his leaving me in the arena, only caring about me because of Katniss. "Have you come to tell me it's ok if I die now, since someone already shot her?" The words taste acidic.

"Do you care that someone shot her?" he asks curiously. A pang blazes through my chest, I didn't think it was true. Was she really shot? No one said anything to me. I grip the sides of the bed, riding out the conflicting waves rocking through me.

"Is she alright?" I ask, when I can finally speak. Finnick's eyes are on the mirror and his head is slightly tilted, his eyes distant as he listens to the earpiece.

His lips curve into a sly smile. "How did you know?" he asks. "They didn't know you knew. They're losing their minds back there," he says as his smile widens.

"Is she?" I can't sort out why I need to know, but the anxiety is starting to escape my control.

He turns to me, his gaze sharpening. "She's ok, Peeta," he says, and my heartbeat stops crashing against my chest, but I feel my hands begin to shake and my ears are ringing with the shriek in my head. "Peeta," his voice is cautious, "were you worried she was -"

"Finnick," I gasp as I struggle for control, "if you say one more word I will tear your lungs out."

His eyes widen, but he clamps his lips together and waits while I battle it back under. It only takes a moment, but I'm frightened by how close I came to leaping for him. And immensely curious why he stayed in the room.

"Why didn't you leave?" I grind out, once I can speak.

He looks surprised himself when I mention it. "Honestly? It never occurred to me you'd hurt me, Peeta," he says, sounding a little shocked by the realization.

I shake my head and my lips curl cynically. "You really are the dumb pretty boy the Capitol says you are," I say scornfully.

He watches me a moment before asking quietly, "Has anyone told you this bitter and angry side is new for you? Do you know it's new?"

"What did you come here for?" I ask brusquely, unable to think over the raging shriek in my head. Too much has happened recently, my control is shaky at best. I can't think about how I feel about what happened to Katniss, or seeing Haymitch, or Finnick's assessment of my character.

He pauses uncertainly, but then, shrugs as though making up his mind. "I'm marrying Annie," he says simply. This sentence sends me teetering as the whisper pitches to an insane squeal at the stark truth. Because of his choices, I'm a broken, useless, dangerous puppet with nothing left. He is unhurt, his home still stands, and now he's going to have a family with the girl he loves. My teeth grind together to hold back the scream boiling in my throat and my muscles are locked in frozen rigidity. I fight to warn him, to tell him to flee, but I'm paralyzed in the fight to contain myself.

"I met the baker here," he continues, blithely unaware, "and I have to say, I'm not sure pastry is her first passion." He raises his eyebrows meaningfully, but I remain stonily silent. "I want you to do our wedding cake, Peeta," he says.

My vision blanks to a flashing white, strobing at the edges and dead silence echoes through my mind as it stutters over the flood of images crashing against my skull. My father, the bakery. The window filled with beautiful and delicate creations we worked on together. Jasper's steady hand and unfailing eye for design. Uri's endless creativity with the limited resources we had. My mother's head for business and talent for welcoming customers. My family. My home.

My eyes fill with tears as my lungs claw for the air they've been emptied of. I tremble from head to foot as I meet Finnick's sea-colored gaze, suddenly registering my distress. "I'm a baker," I gasp.

"Yes, Peeta," he nods, concerned. "It's why I asked you."

I shake my head, blinking fiercely to keep the tears back. Like a missing puzzle piece, a gaping hole in my chest has been filled with a solid, unquestionable truth. I know something true about myself.

"I'm a baker!" I repeat, the giddiness starting to fizz into a goofy smile and bubbling laugh. Finnick, worried at last, inches toward the door, eyes on the mirror. I find this hilarious and the hysteria of joyful, overwhelming relief doubles me over with laughter. Finnick turns tail and bolts, my hooting, caterwauling guffaws echoing down the hallway after him.


	17. Chapter 17

The material of the jumpsuit feels rough against my skin, my arms and legs unused to being confined in heavy cloth after so long in pajama like clothes. Three guards are waiting to accompany me. Lef and Dils, the two who took me to the restroom that first time, and Cilla, the stocky, pretty one who usually stands outside my door.

She tips her head as she watches me fidget in the ill-fitting uniform. "You get used to it," she assures me. "Once you get some meat back on your bones it won't hang on you like that anymore."

Lef and Dils grin and nudge each other while crimson floods up Cilla's throat to stain her cheeks. Bewildered, I look back and forth between them. The reaction pulls at my mind, a familiar but unreachable feeling. Lef meets my gaze and winks merrily. The wink clicks it together for me. Eirik and Carney teasing me about my crush. My knees begin to tremble and I lean a hand on the wall to stay upright, my head bowed and teeth clenched.

"Easy, now," Dils reaches to steady me, concern in his voice.

"I'm ok," I say, though my words are breathless and faint. "I just thought of something, but I'm ok."

The three guards look back and forth worriedly. "This might not be a good idea," Lef hesitates.

"I'm fine," I tell him. "That's why you guys are here. If I didn't need to be wrestled to the ground once in a while, you'd be out of a job. Let's just get going." He still looks worried, and I'm touched. He really is concerned. I reach out and pat him on the shoulder, but my hand freezes there awkwardly as I stare at it. The gesture happened almost without my knowing it.

After a weird, still interval, Dils snorts, "Come on, you'll make Cilla jealous," and moves out the door. Cilla blushes furiously and follows, hissing angrily at him, and I go next, Lef bringing up the rear. The ridiculous train makes its way down the hall to a staircase and we wait while Dils calls up, making sure the first few flights are clear. We wind our way upward, pausing every once in a while to clear the next few floors, while the pressing heaviness of the earth around us lifts from my shoulders. Even though we're still underground, the ascent makes me feel like we're emerging from the depths.

We stop outside a door and wait for a moment while Cilla clears a few people away so they can bring me in. I stand still and quiet, hushing the whisper that screams I'm being treated like a dangerous criminal, focusing on the sketchbook clutched in my hands. The rough cover and clumsy binding, the mismatched pages and the apology it was offered as.

The door swings open, we walk through a short hallway, and then another door and I'm in the kitchen. A corner has been cleared for my use, but the limited essential staff are all frozen at their work, staring at the dangerous lunatic in their midst. My eye twitches slightly, but that's all I give to the shrieking pitch in my head, and I lift a hand to the staff, waving a greeting. "Hi, everyone," I offer awkwardly. "Thanks for letting me use some of your kitchen for a bit."

My voice hangs in the silence until another voice rises to meet it. "Good to see you, Peeta," Greasy Sae calls softly. I flinch wildly backward, Cilla's and Dils' hands grasping me immediately while Lef springs in front of me. The kitchen workers flinch in the opposite direction.

"I'm ok," I say quickly in a low voice, "it just surprised me. I'm ok." The guards loosen their grips but watch me carefully as Greasy Sae walks slowly forward. She has scorched burns along both her arms and up her neck, disappearing into her hairline, and a limp she didn't have before. Her bright gray eyes, usually holding a defiant sparkle, look colder, harder. She has lost much.

"You look awful," she says, and I smile at her echo of my thoughts.

"Not enough wild dog stew, lately," I reply, and her chuckle travels deep into my chest and nestles there, warm and golden.

"Tonight's a good one," she says with a nod. "But you should have tried my rabbit stew when Katniss was bringing them in after hunting." My smile freezes to my lips and my ears ring as the whisper shrieks at me.

"Katniss goes hunting?" I ask carefully, negotiating around the scream budding in my throat.

"Oh, yes," Greasy Sae nods proudly. "She and Gale bring me all kinds of good things from the forest outside. Of course, not lately, not since she's been recovering from her surgery."

"Of course," I nod hollowly back. Katniss and Gale, outside together in the woods, hunting and breathing fresh air, being free of prying eyes, free of shackles, free of the miles of dirt piled on top of the roof, while I – while I…

"Peeta?" Cilla's voice is worried. I swallow the spiky knot in my throat and choke back the boiling fury blackening my vision.

"I'm sorry, I was just picturing some warm rabbit stew," I gasp, but even I can hear the strangled tone of my voice. "It's great to see you," I nod to Greasy Sae, "but I have to get to work. I'm a little behind schedule."

She nods, the hurt in her eyes reflecting my cold dismissal, but I have to leave now or I'll shred everyone I can reach. I move quickly to the corner that's been cleared out for my use. I survey the line-up of ingredients I've requested, but my vision is popping and swooping as I drag breaths through my clenched teeth, hiding my knotted fists in the pockets of the miserable jumpsuit. All I can think of is my dank little cell where I scream and thrash against manacles, while she and Gale stride freely through the cool, inviting green of the woods, together, happy and content, never once even coming to see me.

The swirling confusion slamming against my skull is making me dizzy. Did I really love her? How could I have loved her? With trembling hands, I assemble bowls and cups, but my brain is flickering between chaos and rage. Dils told me a story about Prim and Buttercup, the yowly yellow cat almost getting her caught out of a lockdown. They even have their family pet. I measure carefully, sifting and mixing, my heart aching as I picture my father doing this job alongside me a thousand times. He'll never do it again, I'll never see him again, and they even have their family pet.

The measuring cup clatters from my hand and bangs to the floor as I grip the edge of the table, the tremor quaking through me from head to toe. My false leg rattles against the metal table. I'm not even whole anymore! She hasn't lost anything, and she never even looks back. All the deaths for her, all the loss for her. All the grief and suffering and misery. For her. And she doesn't even look back!

"Lef," I grit between my teeth. "I need to sit down a second."

At the code words, my three guards quickly whisk me into the alcove off the kitchen and take positions around me, shackles at the ready. But I don't rage. I don't scream and I don't lunge for them. I sink to the floor and wrap my arms around my head, hands gripping my hair as sobs wrack my wasted frame. I shudder as waves of grief and loss and pure, dirty, unfairness crash over me, wailing my agony through clenched teeth and eyes squeezed tight.

"Oh, Peeta," Cilla's cracked whisper is misery. Dils sinks to the floor next to me, his hands reaching to soothe and calm, and I clutch fistfuls of his shirt, pulling myself into the warmth of his shoulder, sobbing uncontrollably. Lef and Cilla's hands are on my back, on my head, stroking and comforting as the storm works its way through me.

Finally, the hot, heavy emptiness deep in my heart dulls from a piercing, stabbing agony to a blunted, weighty despair. I grind the heels of my hands into my eyes, humiliated and miserable. _coward weakling sniveling child_

"Mourning isn't weak." Lef's voice is gentle. "It helps. You should let yourself do it more."

I can't meet their eyes. Staring at the floor, I sniffle and wipe the back of my hand across my nose. Cilla silently offers me a rough square of cloth and I take it gratefully. "I should get back to the cake," I say quietly. Dils offers me a hand up and we go back to the kitchen. The staff studiously avoids looking at me and my cheeks burn. There's no way they didn't hear me whining and whimpering in the next room, and I must look a mess. Silently, I wash my hands and get back to work.

Thankfully, making such a large confection takes a lot of concentration. I've only done it a few times, and that was with my father's help. I narrow my focus until all that exists is the smooth, sweet batter, the lightly dusted pans, the roaring oven. The vile whisper.

Once the pans are in the oven, my shoulders sag and my head droops. I nod toward the door, leaving directions for when to take the cake out and how to cool it. A list of what I'll need tomorrow. Then, weary to the center of my bones, my guards escort me back to my room. Barely taking the effort to shed the stiff jumpsuit, I crawl under the blankets and pull them over my head. Burrowing away from the prying gaze of the titillated audience behind the glass, I wrap my head in my arms and let my tears soak my pillow as I tremble my way to sleep.

When I wake, the tendrils of my dream slide away from me as I try desperately to grab for them. I don't remember what my dream was, I only remember being outside. I remember feeling at peace, and as the feeling fades with my dream the hollowness replacing it weighs on me. I haul myself to sitting on the edge of the bed, my prosthetic kinked at an odd angle. Working it back around, I shake my head. I know better than to sleep with it. My hands still as I tighten a strap, the revulsion and resentment I felt yesterday echoing in my thoughts.

With the grimy sheen of a new day, I blow out a lungful of pent up breath, trying to shake off the heartache of the day before. Scrubbing my hands briskly through my hair, I swing my feet down and stand. Was Finnick right? Was I not so bitter and angry before? But Lef is right as well. I hadn't lost anything before. Not like this. Maybe I have a right to be hostile. My lips quirk cynically. That wasn't exactly what he meant, but it's better than blubbering all over armed guards. Resolving to get through an entire day without crying like a lost child, I ready myself to face the kitchen again.

A few hours later I step back from my work. I've only finished the base coat, but it took forever to get the shading right. Without the right tools and ingredients, I've had to improvise a little bit, but overall I'm pleased. The blue and green waver around streaks of pearly white, shimmering and suggesting depth and movement. Shadows and light seem to dance across the surface. I allow myself a contented smile.

"That is amazing," Dils says, shaking his head. "I watched you do it and I still can't believe it."

Cilla and Lef are examining it closely, but all three turn sharply when the door swings open and two visitors enter.

"Peeta!" Delly's voice is a gasp of awe. "It's gorgeous! It looks just like the ocean!"

"Not too shabby, piping prince," Haymitch drawls, though even his eyes are wide with admiration.

I grin my thanks, wiping my hands on a rag and running a wrist across my forehead. "It's alright, isn't it?" I agree. "Wait until I start decorating."

"There's more?" Delly beams. "What will you do?"

I nod toward my sketchbook on the counter. "Check in there, I made some quick drawings."

Delly and Haymitch lean their heads together over the book, flipping the pages and cooing admiring murmurs. A glow of pride warms my chest as I gather the bowls and knives, bringing the first load over to the sink and starting them to soaking. Cilla is bringing another armful and I smile my thanks as we pass each other. Moving back to the bench, I see Haymitch and Delly are still absorbed with the sketches, but they seem oddly still. When I get closer, they lift their eyes in unison to lock onto me and I feel my stomach drop.

"Oh, Peeta," Delly whispers, her eyes sparkling with tears. "Is this what you see?" Even Haymitch looks shaken and I curse myself silently for letting them see my book.

"They're just drawings," I shrug indifferently, reaching for the book. I shove it in a pocket of my jumpsuit and try to meet their eyes but the bottomless sorrow and pity wreak havoc with my control and my gaze darts away. "I don't… I mean, it's not…I don't think it's real anymore," I finish in a cracked mutter. "I know she isn't like that." But I still can't meet their eyes. Because even if I know she isn't like that physically, I'm not convinced it isn't true about her real self.

Haymitch is watching me with such a depth of grief that I can't stand it. "I know she's not," I insist, sounding like a petulant child. "In fact, I've been wondering why she hasn't been to see me. Everyone says she's fine, she's fully recovered. Why won't she come to see me? Is she the one who's afraid?"

Delly holds trembling hands to her mouth, shaking her head silently, but I won't back down from the goading of the whisper. _coward child trembling coward weakling_ Haymitch tips his head to one side and studies me intently. "Do you really want to talk to her? Are you sure, boy?"

A sick dizziness shakes my belly, but I nod defiantly. "Why not?"

"Mr. Abernathy," Dils' voice is concerned. "I don't know if he's in good condition to-"

Rage sizzles over my skin. "Mr. Abernathy no longer makes my choices for me," I cut in, anger dripping from my sharp words. "Tell her I want to see her."

Spinning on my heel, I push my way through the doors and hurry down the hallway, my guards following hastily behind. _coward fool idiot danger kill her_ The whisper's gleeful anticipation echoes along beside me as I clatter recklessly down the stairs. _kill her kill her kill her_


	18. Chapter 18

On the day of the wedding, the kitchen is a madhouse. Even though plain by Capitol standards, the food is magnificent by any others. If only in quantity. Many of these people have never seen so much food all at once if it wasn't some form of mashed root vegetable. I think of the Capitol feast at the end of the tour, and the extravagant tables laden with all manner of delicacies. A shudder makes my piping tip waver, but I force my mind from the image of Katniss, swooping and screaming on flaming wings, to the bright, busy kitchen where I retreated as she danced with Plutarch Heavensbee.

Much like this one, the hum of focus in that kitchen had soothed and comforted me. The clatter and ring of pans and glasses, the call of orders and curses, the heady scent of delicious offerings. And woven throughout, the sweet, sugar-tinted aroma of baking. Steady again, my hands are sure and quick as I add finishing touches to the towering confection.

Stepping back, I squint critically at a seal that may more closely resemble a dog. Cilla heaves an exasperated sigh behind me.

"Have you ever even seen a sweel before?" she demands.

Dils' bark of laughter sends color flooding up the column of her throat and Lef elbows him reproachfully, though grinning widely himself.

"A seal," I tell her, enunciating carefully. "And no, actually. I read a book once that had a picture of one is all. I remember thinking it kind of looked like a half-dog, half-fish."

"Well, I'd never even heard of one until you started it yesterday," she retorts defensively. "And I'm willing to bet these two illiterates hadn't either," she glares at her colleagues. "Same for everyone out there who is going to see it. It's amazing, you know it is. Let it go."

I shrug lightly. There are two notable exceptions, who happen to be the guests of honor, but Cilla is obviously embarrassed and I let it be good enough so she doesn't feel worse. I smile and thank her for the compliment, which sends the color rushing into her cheeks again.

"I just hope Finnick and Annie are pleased," I say, trying to change the subject quickly. "Maybe it will distract from the fact that they're getting married in gray jumpsuits."

"Oh, no," Lef shakes his head. "I saw her dress, it's incredible. I've never seen anything like it."

"Really?" I ask, surprised. "I thought you guys didn't go in for that kind of thing. Where did you get a fancy dress?"

My three guards' eyes grow wide and they shoot glances back and forth like guilty children caught with hands in the cookie jar. The whisper squeals into a frenzy of hate and I quickly back up from the cake, putting a counter in between us in case I lose control, but I'm able to keep my focus.

"I'm ok," I say steadily, though my hands clench onto the edge of the counter and my knuckles gleam white. "Can you tell me though, because I'm getting kind of shaky imagining what you might be saying. I think I'll be better if I just know the truth."

My voice trembles slightly and they clearly can't decide which is worse. What can it be that is causing them so much indecision? Black spots pop on the edges of my vision and the whisper chants its rage and suspicion until Lef shakes his head resignedly.

"I'm so sorry, Peeta, that was stupid," he mutters. "Ka- they took her to…to the Victors' Village in… I'm sorry, in District 12 and found a dress – um, a dress that was worn on the tour."

The trembling in my hands is the only thing I can't bring back under my control. Lef looks absolutely miserable, and the halting, obviously edited, version of the story was so carefully worded to try and spare me. I pull a ragged breath and ease my grip on the counter, meeting his anxious gaze.

"That's not so bad," I assure him. "I'm getting so much better, huh? No screaming or hiding. Watch this." I take a deep breath and he leans slightly forward, watching anxiously. "Katniss," I blurt abruptly, and he jerks flinchingly backward, sending Cilla and Dils snorting with laughter.

I grin widely and wink, determinedly hiding the tilting nausea in my belly. "Who was the poor sucker who had to make one of those gowns fit Annie?" I ask lightly, "That's a lot different than stitching up holes in jumpsuits."

Dils is still chortling from Lef's startle and he turns bright eyes to mine. "It was her prep team. They altered one of your suits for Finnick as well."

His words ring in my ears against the pitch of the whisper's screaming. Her team. Brilliant, kind Portia, loyal, loving Selt and Lyra, and round, bubbly Junius screamed on the table just so I would see it. Just so she would know I saw it. Aurelius told me they had been executed on live television the night I was taken from the Capitol. But Katniss' team is preparing a bride and groom for a wedding.

"I need to sit down a second," I whisper.

The team springs into action, sweeping me from the kitchen and before I know it, I'm back in my room with trembling fists pressed against my temples, fighting to contain the rage and horror from erupting and consuming me with fire. My guards are in defensive positions, but watching me with sorrow and concern shining from their eyes. Forcing my focus to stay on Cilla's hands, her strong, solid fingers and square, short nails, I slowly gain ground until finally I'm able to unlock my rigid muscles and begin to breathe normally. I pull a deep, shaky lungful of air and scrub my hands through my hair. Walking carefully to the mirror, I stare intently at the reflection I usually go out of my way to avoid.

Blonde waves are discordantly familiar over a face I barely recognize. Thin and gaunt, my cheeks are hollow and my skin sallow. Scars and welts blur along my jaw and cheekbones. My nose has a slight crook it didn't have before and my clothes hang from my frame in baggy rumples. My hands tremble at my sides. But my eyes are the same. The clear, bright blue drills through the reflection, through the glass to the cluster of jumpsuits I'm certain dither behind it.

"I want to see her now. Tonight," I tell them. My voice is steady and my eyes hard. "If she has the guts to face me," I add, my lip curling in scornful challenge.

Behind me, Cilla makes a small noise of distress. I turn, and she tightens her grip on her weapon when she sees my expression. Still, she tips her head worriedly. "Are you sure that's a good idea?" she asks carefully.

I study the three of them quietly for a moment, and the concern on their faces loosens the furious tension in my shoulders. I nod slowly, my eyes on hers. "I have to know if she was worth it," I say.

The day passes uneventfully for me, locked away in the deepest bowels of the earth while the party glitters and thrums above. I pace, I sleep, I eat. I fight to drown out the poisonous hatred of the whisper winding through my every waking moment. I draw.

A knock on the door startles me and the pencil jumps across the braid of the small, singing girl in the corner of an old delivery schedule. At my invitation Cilla swings the door open and enters, watching me sadly. "How are you doing?" she asks carefully.

I shrug, "I'm ok," I tell her. "I really am."

The corner of her lips tugs upward. "I tried to smuggle you some food, but the guy on the door is itching for a promotion, he's practically strip searching people as they leave. I'll try again tomorrow," she promises me.

I smile, eased by the gesture. "Thanks, Cilla," I say warmly. "I actually got a fancy dinner tonight. It was great." She beams at the lie and my chest feels lighter. "Is it time?" I ask.

She nods and raises her eyebrow questioningly, her eye on the restraints. "Yes, please," I say. "Actually, I was thinking." She pauses her move toward the bed. "Can we – I think we should maybe try some extra. Just in case," I say as lightly as I can.

In the end, I have three restraints on each arm, two on each leg, and a knock-out drug in the needle in my arm. Lef shakes his head and grins at me. "How could she not have the guts to face this?" he teases. But I can see the worry in his eyes, in everyone's as they stand in a ring around the bed where I lie trussed and tied. "We're right outside," he says softly, patting my foot awkwardly before they all shuffle out.

I lie still, staring at the pocked ceiling and trying to ignore the furious scream wailing through my skull. I breathe deeply and intentionally, pulling air against the weight of all the invisible stares from the other side of the glass. Images flicker through my mind, fire and blood and death. I stare at the ceiling.

Without a knock, the door eases open and my eyes fly toward it, breath freezing in my throat. She walks in, her gaze darting around the room, barely looking at me. She stops about a yard from the bed, conspicuously out of reach, arms folded tightly against her chest. Considering our last meeting, I can understand this.

"Hey," she mutters, her voice flat.

"Hey," I say back, the brittle acid of the word sour on my tongue.

She stares at me silently, resentment in every line of her. This is the first time she's seen me since she found out what happened to me. Since she found out what she left me to. I see no trace of relief at my lucidity, no concern for me. Thread's voice, from forever ago, calls forward from the past. I have served my purpose, she has no more need of me.

"Haymitch said you wanted to talk to me," she prods edgily. I've pulled her away from her party, interrupted her fun.

"Look at you for starters," I reply, finding bitter enjoyment in keeping her from the celebration. I watch her intently, but my vision stutters and snaps as the fury of the shrieking in my head threatens to blot out everything else. I study her hungrily. Searching for some sign of the girl who silenced the birds with her singing, of the soft-eyed intensity that swore her need for me on the beach. Of someone I would have been ready to die for.

Her eyes flicker impatiently toward the glass, as though wondering how long she'll have to endure this interview. She can't wait to be away from me. An echo of a memory from before. After our return from the first Games, her awkwardness around me, how she would avoid being anywhere near me. Did I really love her?

"You're not very big, are you?" I observe, trying to puzzle out the alleged attraction. "Or particularly pretty?" I hear the cruelty in the question too late, but as I start to apologize, she narrows her eyes tightly and her lips are a thin, angry line.

"Well, you've looked better," she spits.

The absurdity of the comment tears a harsh, biting laugh from me. She thinks I didn't hold up well enough after the torture she abandoned me to? She's disgusted by the scars I picked up?

"And not even remotely nice," I add to the list, words dripping with scorn. "To say that to me after all I've been through."

"Yeah," she nods bitterly. "We've all been through a lot." My jaw drops at this wildly unjust comparison, and I open my mouth for a furious denunciation when she adds, "And you were the one who was known for being nice. Not me." Her eyes are on the floor, arms wrapped around her ribs, and she looks unutterably miserable. The room tips and swirls, and I see her again, with the same expression, only smaller, younger. She is drenched and hollowed out by hunger, crouching in the rain and the mud and my heart swells with such fierce desire that I think it may burst with it.

She turns and starts toward the door. "Look, I don't feel so well. Maybe I'll drop by tomorrow."

I fight for air, fight against the whisper's rage, fight the dizzy confusion to grasp at this image that rings clear and bright in my mind. "Katniss," I call, but my voice is low with the effort, the importance that I say this. "I remember about the bread."

She freezes, her hand reaching for the latch. "They showed you the tape of me talking about it," she says, without turning around.

"No." This is different. This is the gentler voice that battles the whisper. This is the instinct from parts of me so deep I don't know how to mine them. This is the core of who I am.

Her comment flares my paranoia though. My image is from the past, not someone discussing it recently. "Is there a tape of you talking about it?" I ask curiously. "Why didn't the Capitol use it against me?" I realize she stays a girl in my vision, no flaming arrows, no fiery wings. How did I preserve this image in its real form?

"I made it the day you were rescued," she says, turning slowly back to face me. Her face is pained and I wonder if she dreads what I remember. If I will burden her with declarations again. "So what do you remember?" she tests me in a strained voice.

The image is stark and clear, and I can feel my heart respond to it. A faintly familiar ache, an unreachable desire. Before I knew her as she really is, I did love her. I close my eyes against the reality, but I feel the weighty solidity of certainty slide into place in my heart. I loved her, and I wanted only to protect her. I meet her storm gray eyes, irritably waiting for my answer. I see no resonance of affection there, only distance and a deep chill. What do I remember?

"You," I whisper. "In the rain. Digging in our trash bins." The images flicker behind my eyes. "Burning the bread. My mother hitting me. Taking the bread out for the pig but then giving it to you instead." My voice scratches into silence as I hold her gaze.

"That's it," her voice is soft as well. "That's what happened. The next day, after school, I wanted to thank you. But I didn't know how." A familiar buzz of confusion, I don't know how to interpret her tone. She sounds so genuine, so true. Only seconds ago she was coldly trying to disentangle herself from even talking to me. It matches the confusion I felt that day so many years ago. She seemed to want to reach out, but she pushed away instead.

"We were outside at the end of the day," I recall. "I tried to catch your eye. You looked away." I can feel again the cold wash of disappointment. I'd thought I finally had my chance. I was going to talk to her, I had finally been able to break out of my crippling shyness around her. And she had turned away from me, focusing instead on a small golden patch in the grass. "And then…for some reason, I think you picked a dandelion." The thrum in my chest is an echo of an agony from all those years ago. I remember watching achingly as she walked away from me without ever looking back. "I must have loved you a lot," I say hollowly.

"You did," she answers, an empty acknowledgement, coughing suspiciously to cover her discomfort. The whisper is raging against my skull, screaming for her blood, but even more than that is the black emptiness gnawing its way through my aching heart. I did love her. Enough to want to die for her. Twice. Was it worth it? Was she worth it?

"And did you love me?" I can hear the desperate appeal in my own voice and despise myself for it.

She stares at the floor, refusing to meet my eyes. Even now, after everything, she doesn't even see me as someone to talk with, only to deal with.

"Everyone says I did," she answers blankly. Her flat words and empty voice shatter in icy splinters against my heart. I was a fool. I threw my life away for someone who couldn't have cared less. She won't even look at me. "Everyone says that's why Snow had you tortured. To break me."

Everyone says. But they aren't her words. And she clearly isn't broken. "That's not an answer," I say, feeling the whisper burrow deep and dark into the hole left in my heart. "I don't know what to think when they show me some of the tapes," I accuse, taking a vicious delight in throwing her selfishness in her face. "In that first arena, it looked like you tried to kill me with those tracker jackers."

"I was trying to kill all of you," she retorts, unabashed. "You had me treed."

I switch tactics, wanting only to hurt, to pierce that uncaring shell and shake some feeling from her. Something to answer the scorching pain in my chest as she denies any connection, takes my sacrifice as her due. "Later, there's a lot of kissing. Didn't seem very genuine on your part. Did you like kissing me?" I sneer.

"Sometimes," she shrugs. "You know people are watching us now?"

"I know." She worries others are hearing how awfully she treats people? Or is it one person in particular she worries is hearing. "What about Gale?" I ask pointedly.

"He's not a bad kisser either," she shoots back coldly, her eyes sparking indignantly that someone would dare call her out on her narcissistic manipulation.

"And it was ok with both of us?" I ask, pleased to have found an effective pressure point. "You kissing the other?"

"No. It wasn't ok with either of you. But I wasn't asking your permission." Her head is tipped back, her gray eyes flashing steel, furious that I would judge her, instead of trembling in awe of the all-powerful, unimpeachable Mockingjay.

"Well, you're a piece of work aren't you?" I snort disgustedly. She spins on her heel and leaves without a word, icy in her anger that someone doesn't fall over themselves in worship of her. I stare at the closed door as it swings silently shut behind her. The whisper is a low buzz of ecstatic triumph. And I have my answer. I was an idiot. She was not worth it.


	19. Chapter 19

Haymitch's strong, white teeth catch at the corner of his lower lip. His tell. "The cake was amazing last night. Seven," he declares nonchalantly, gray eyes steady on mine, confident I won't catch the lie.

"Thanks. It was great to work on something like that again. Call," I respond, flipping my cards to show my hand. He curses and tosses his own cards down. If only I'd learned to read his lies earlier. I gather the cards together and tap the sides sharply, making neat edges to the pile. "You owe me your stew, and your fruit the next time we get fresh. But I'll take canned if it's peaches. And you have to get me a leftover piece of cake."

Shaking his head in disgust, he narrows his eyes at me. "I never lost to you when we played back home. Maybe I play better drunk."

I shrug. "Maybe I play better crazy."

His eyes dart away, but not to the mirror, which I appreciate. "I guess it didn't go so well last night," he says, finally broaching the subject I'm sure he came to discuss.

I shrug again. "Depends," I respond. "I got the answer I wanted."

Haymitch is uncharacteristically silent, watching me with hooded eyes. He, and everyone in this place, was hoping I would take one look at her and the past few months would fall away. I'd leap up, the healthy, happy, optimist they all know and love who was never any trouble to anyone, instead of this raving lunatic they're saddled with and have to keep locked away for fear I'll go berserk and attack someone. _killer danger burden end it_ I haven't even told him about the whisper. I haven't told anyone. I don't want them to know a terrible voice in my head is relentlessly pushing for me to hurt them, that I'm constantly fighting to ignore its raving demands.

I'm exhausted with this conversation, with everyone only thinking of me in relation to Katniss. It's clear we are nothing to each other, why won't anyone let it go? What will it take for everyone to stop waiting for me to go back to only being the boy who loves her?

Haymitch swings his head toward the mirror, his brows lifting questioningly, then turns quickly back to me, eyes darting to my unshackled wrists.

"What did they say?" I ask suspiciously. But before he can answer there's a light knock on the door. "Come in," I call automatically, and the door swings open. My throat closes over the scream that rises from my chest and I gasp for breath like a flopping guppy, gripping the edges of the bed and clenching my teeth together. Johanna watches me struggle for a second, and I see her dark eyes reflect a deep, aching misery, but it's quickly chased by a blazing anger that stiffens her spine.

We regard each other in silence for a moment, assessing the damage we heard being done to each other, but haven't yet seen. Her eyes shine with fury, but her lips tremble and her hands are gripped in fists at her sides. Her hair is a downy fuzz just starting to cover her head, but the burns and gashes are still plainly evident. She stares out from sunken eye sockets and her gaunt features are sharp and hollow. The hospital clothes hang on her bony frame and the sharp angles of her hips and shoulders echo my own.

I worried she hated me, blamed me for what happened to her, but I see the reflection of my worry in her eyes as we study each other and I feel a painful comfort in knowing she understands me, as I understand her. We've both had our true selves scorched away to reveal new people, people we are discovering how to be.

"I didn't think anyone could look worse than me," she smirks. "You look like a weasel I found once that had been snared in a vine for days."

"You look like you've been trapped down a mine for a month," I counter. "I'd take weasel over that any time."

She watches me closely for a minute, but I see the tension ease behind her eyes. "They told me you were a screaming maniac," she says bluntly. "I was hoping for a show."

"Only sometimes," I tell her. "Dr. Aurelius can give you a list of things that set me off if you really want to see it."

She snorts. "Dr. Aurelius is a professional who would never use one of his patients for another's amusement. Would you, doctor?" she asks, turning deliberately to the mirror. She turns back to me with a smirking wink, a hollow ghost of the smug gesture she flashed at me in the elevator the first time we spoke. I feel an empty darkness of loss in my belly.

She hasn't even acknowledged Haymitch is in the room, and he doesn't seem to expect her to. I wonder what their first conversation was like, and send a silent thanks to the universe I didn't witness that one. He busies himself with shuffling the cards from hand to hand, avoiding eye contact.

"Why are you allowed up and around?" I ask, looking past her for guards.

"Because I didn't try and strangle my one true love," she snorts, her voice chiding but her dark eyes flicker with a deep pain. Icy fury frosts her voice and she turns to Haymitch who shrinks into himself. "Do you know what happened to him to make that possible?" she snaps. "Do you know what you did?"

"Johanna," I reach a hand out toward her. "I can do it. I can do it myself." She takes a shuddering breath and shakes her head angrily, fists clenching and knuckles gleaming white. "I can do it. I'm ok. I can do it." A steady stream of assurance tumbles from my lips as she visibly gathers herself, pulling back from the scorching anger radiating from her. I'm touched, but I also know much of this flame is for her, what she went through because of others' machinations.

The mask of cold detachment slides back into place and she flops down on the bed across my legs, pretending carelessness. "They giving you anything good?" she asks, eyes searching my room.

I shake my head. "I'm staying away from it. Trying to clear my head out." I watch her carefully, trying to figure out how to pose my question without offending her. "How's your head?" I ask.

"Bald as an egg," she smirks dryly, turning to Haymitch to grind out, "The better to attach the leads to." She looks satisfied when he flinches but turns away again. "They kept me clean," she says, answering my question, but then asks one of her own. "I hear you talked to Katniss last night. And didn't try to kill her."

"She's not worth the effort," I mutter, keeping my eyes down so I don't have to watch their reactions to my reply.

"I just want to move on," I say, my voice rising with the urgency of my desire. "I just want to leave this room and do something useful. I want people to stop waiting for me to be in love with someone who doesn't give a damn about me. I don't want to kill her. I don't want to love her. I couldn't care less about Katniss Everdeen!"

In the silence and stillness left behind my ringing denunciation, Haymitch bows his head under the withering glare of furious blame Johanna levels at him. She turns her blazing gaze to me next and narrows her eyes to peer intently into my answering gaze of steady blue ice. But she shrugs and looks away. The first person to let me decide how I feel about something myself and I am deeply grateful.

Before I can comment, another knock and the door swings open. The same tall, dark man from before enters, followed quickly by the smaller woman with the curtain of iron gray hair and flinty gray eyes, who I now know to be the leader of this district, President Alma Coin. She carries her leadership the same way Snow does, hard won and tightly held.

Her cold eyes sweep the array of battered victors before her, and she presses her lips in a tight, self-satisfied line. "Hello, Peeta. Haymitch, Johanna." Her nods are quick and short and Haymitch lifts a weary hand to acknowledge her, while Johanna stares her down with matching cold stillness.

"I don't think we've met," I offer my hand. "Peeta Mellark. District 12."

She has the grace to redden slightly at her arrogance but counters it by replying, "Not anymore. You're one of us now." She takes my hand gingerly and I remember the first time I saw her, and my reaction to that news then.

"Thank you for your hospitality," I reply steadily. "I appreciate the losses you must have taken to come get us, and I'm grateful. We're grateful," I amend, nodding to include Johanna. She, however, rolls her eyes and exits without a word.

Coin watches me carefully, her eyes calculating. Again, I'm reminded of Snow. I must seem better than she was expecting, and she's wondering how to use it to her own advantage.

"You're quite welcome," she replies, the edge to her voice being softened and a smile that doesn't reach her eyes lifting her lips. "We knew Finnick and Katniss, and even Haymitch, were too distressed to operate adequately with you in the hands of the Capitol, and we needed them at full capacity."

I bite the inside of my lip to keep the shudder from showing. I'm certain she's baiting me, but what is she fishing for?

"Well, thank you anyway," I reply. "Regardless of why, I'm glad to be out. I'm looking forward to being of some help around here. Finnick and Annie's wedding cake was a small token of my appreciation, but I'd like to be of service in breaking the stranglehold the Capitol has over its citizens. Even if it's just working in the kitchens here while others do the heavy lifting."

"I'm glad to hear that, Peeta," she replies with a veneer of warmth that rings as false as her smile. Haymitch stiffens as well and I grind my molars against the whisper as it pitches to an alarmed frenzy of warning and anger. "We were hoping you would be willing to help us."

"He's barely up and around," Haymitch interposes, his voice lazy but his eyes drilling into mine. "I don't know how much he's ready to take on."

Haymitch Abernathy is well beyond deciding what I will or won't take on and I tip my chin up defiantly. "I don't know how much more you want to waste on keeping me an invalid. Every moment I don't contribute, I'm a drain on resources. It's time I started pulling my weight."

Coin smiles almost greedily. "True," she nods. "I understand you had a conversation with Katniss last night and it went very well. We'd like to start introducing you to the rest of the community. There is a level of distrust because of the opinions the Capitol forced you to voice."

"My opinions were my own," I reply, my voice low but steady. "I wasn't forced to say anything on camera I didn't actually believe. This war is catastrophic for humanity. Our numbers are small already, killing each other is a stupid and pointless idea." I hear the truth in my words, feel the conviction solid and true in my chest. I really do believe this, and that knowledge firms my resolve.

Coin, however, looks like a cat that has swallowed a very fat canary. "Oh, I agree, Peeta. You could not be more right. That is why we are intent on ending this war as quickly and decisively as possible. And we are on the threshold of accomplishing this. And we have a very clear role for you to play. But that is a conversation for another time. Right now, what is important is restoring your health, and we are bending every effort to that end."

I don't know how or why, but I've said something to please her, and that makes me suspicious. Haymitch has the same look of distrust, and while I won't let him make decisions for me anymore, he has good instincts. I'll need to talk to him later. For now, the news that I'm to be let out of this room soon is welcome. Regardless of what she expects from me, Coin is my key to freedom, so I smile my most ingratiating grin and fix my deep blue eyes on her pale ice gaze.

"Thank you, President Coin. I am grateful for your care and look forward to being able to repay you for it."

She smiles widely back. "I'm certain you will, Peeta. Thank you."


	20. Chapter 20

My days change rapidly now. I'm allowed to walk around with Lef and Dils behind me in the hospital wing, but only down two halls. No one says so, but I'm certain Katniss is down the third. I couldn't care less. I read a story to a little girl who fell against a sharp girder and has a bandage around her ribs. I show her my prosthetic leg and she runs a gentle finger along the joint between flesh and plastic. I don't flinch from her touch.

I'm asked to the kitchen to talk to the cook about bread. I show her my father's butter roll recipe, and with a few adjustments, since District 13 deems the original wasteful beyond belief, we come up with a soft, flavorful roll I'm sure my father would be proud of.

Always, I'm watched. I can feel the reach of Coin's stare no matter where I go or what I do. Not for safety, she's gauging and evaluating. She has something in mind and I'm sure it uses me in some way. For now, though, I don't care. For now, my world has expanded beyond four walls for the first time in months and I'm taking full advantage of it.

About a week later, I'm playing cards with Delly. She has just finished lecturing me about how I need to cut Katniss more slack, that my perceptions are colored by what the Capitol did to me and I'm not seeing the real her. I nod and smile, smothering the whisper and fighting to keep my hands steady. I agree and deflect and concentrate on the cards in my hand. We both look up, startled, when Coin pushes through the doorway and her ever present shadow, Boggs, drifts in silently behind her.

"Hello, Peeta, Dolly," Coin nods warmly and smiles at us both. "Is it alright if I come in?"

"Her name is Delly," I say clearly. "And you're already in."

Delly flushes crimson and brushes away Coin's curt apology, but she stands protectively in front of me and I wind her fingers into my grasp with warm gratitude.

"Perhaps, Delly, you'll give me a few moments to speak with Peeta?" Coin asks, her eyes on our intertwined fingers and her tone implying it is an order, rather than a request. Delly hesitates and I grin widely at her questioning glance. Alma Coin is clearly unused to less than immediate genuflection and seems unsure of how offended to be.

"It's ok, Delly," I assure her. "Thank you. I'll talk to you later tonight after dinner. I'll finish getting whupped by you then."

Her smile is summer sunshine and she gathers the cards before stepping around Coin on her way out. Though I notice she squeezes Boggs' arm as she goes past and I study him with renewed interest. If Delly likes him, I should think more carefully about him. Of course, Delly likes everyone.

I turn back to my visitors and find them watching me with completely different expressions. Hers is predatory and hungry, his is wary and untrusting. I like him a little better.

"How can I help?" I ask, certain she'll want to cut straight to it.

"I think it's we who are helping today," she responds. "We've been watching carefully and it's true, you are getting better every day."

"Thank you," I say, but I hush the whisper as I wait for the trap to spring.

"Would you like to eat dinner in the dining hall tonight?"

Her question takes me by surprise and the whisper shrieks in joyful anticipation of all the people within easy reach to shred and claw. I feel the corner of my eyelid twitch, but otherwise I manage to hide my response. "Why?" I ask the obvious question.

She shrugs much too casually, as though she's rehearsed this response. "It's time. I'd like the citizens to start to see you and get used to you. They have some anger still, but I think seeing you and talking to you will help that to abate. We want everyone on the same side here."

"Are we all on the same side here?" I ask with just the smallest hint of suspicion. Boggs perks up his stance, as if a candlestick had just asked what was for lunch.

"We must be," Coin's answer is firm, and, I think, the first honest thing she's said since I met her.

I nod slowly. The people I trusted before used me to their own ends, abused my trust, manipulated me and left me to die slowly. The people I know now are strangers and obviously have their own agendas, which, again, appear to have a plan to use me to their advantage. I can trust no one.

"Of course," I reply. "Dinner would be great. Thanks."

She smiles tightly, but Boggs watches me shrewdly. He regards me like the cornered wild animal that I am, and he's ready for me to bite.

An hour later Lef and Dils arrive, all smiles and full of congratulations.

"What great news! The doctors must think you're so much better!" Lef is truly happy for me, and I clap his shoulder appreciatively.

"Thanks, guys." I hesitate. The whisper is positively howling for blood. The idea of so many strangers, so many hostile eyes, it screams for destruction. "Listen, I think maybe some cuffs would be a good idea. Just for the first time. Just in case."

Dils grins at me proudly. "The fact that you would ask, makes me sure you won't need them," he says, with oddly reassuring logic. "But if it will make you feel better." He pulls a set from the latch on the back of his belt and clips them around my outstretched wrists. I find the cold weight comforting, even though it ramps the fury of the whisper to a fever pitch.

We walk down the quiet halls of the hospital wing where jumpsuits are serving dinner to the few bedridden residents. At the stairs, we begin our walk up and I feel again the sense of emergence, even though the windowless flights in the blank, empty wells are still deep underground. Moving up means moving toward responsibility and capability. Toward being trusted. Toward people who want to use me.

At the top of the stairs, instead of going through the next door to the kitchens, we turn left and walk down a wide hall, along with a few people also drifting in late to the meal. I can hear the rising murmur of the crowd as we get closer to the double doors leading to the dining hall. It reminds me of school, and I think of the many hours spent with my friends chattering of nonsense, teasing and laughing, taking for granted the golden time of careless irresponsibility we somehow thought would never end.

Through the doors and Lef deftly plucks a tray from a teetering pile and Dils takes a glass of water from a wet grouping. Holding the tray awkwardly since the cuffs keep me from properly reaching the edges, but glad having it balanced on my hands hides them, I move down the line to receive a large bowl of thick, rich smelling stew that makes my mouth water. One of the rolls I worked on with the cook plunks down on my tray and I look up to see Greasy Sae wink at me encouragingly. It helps to quiet the uproar in my head, the shrieking demand of the whisper and the clamor of so many people in one place at one time. I haven't been around this many people since the interviews before the Games and my pulse is pounding in my ears. I smile gratefully and turn to the room.

Looking around at the throng of heaving, bellowing humanity I feel my hands begin to shake. I think I may ask the guards to take me back, I feel my control teetering as I scan the room for a corner with a seat where I can place a wall at my back. Everything is so wide open and crowded, I begin to experience a tilting vertigo, but then, a tiny buzz at the base of my spine and I turn my head to the table at the back of the room.

A large group of jumpsuits, and at the far end, Annie sits pressed tight against Finnick along with Delly and Johanna. Across from them, Katniss leans comfortably against Gale, all of their faces bright with laughter and their whole, healthy bodies relaxed and enjoying a good meal and good company. The whisper's raging squeal pitches low and dark fury boils fiercely in my belly. I clench my teeth against the angry chanting and struggle to force it back down. Lef follows my gaze and places a light hand on my arm, worry clouding his honest eyes.

"Peeta," he says in a hushed warning.

"It's fine," I tell him lightly. "I'll ask them if it's ok. If they say no, we'll go over there by the column. Come on, earn your money." I start across the room, the noisy confusion muffled by the whisper's chanting rage, my guards following on stiff alert.

I stop behind an empty seat next to Johanna and, not wanting to interrupt, wait for Finnick to finish what he's saying. Is he talking about a turtle eating his hat? Katniss, head thrown back and leaning against Gale, laughs brightly. The sounds pulls at memories buried deep, and I remember the first time I made her laugh. The chariots before the first Games. I had wanted nothing more than to make her laugh again. To hear it over and over.

She chortles as she takes a bite of bread, and her eyes drift upward to meet mine. Recognition comes slowly, but when it dawns she chokes and splutters, eyes wide and face frozen in horror. A small, hissing triumph in the whisper as it points out she is dismayed to see me here.

Delly, on the other hand, is equally shocked, but delighted at the surprise. I focus on her smile and smash the whisper down low.

"Peeta! It's so nice to see you out…and about," she finishes haltingly when she sees the manacles.

Johanna is less restrained. "What's with the fancy bracelets?" she asks.

"I'm not quite trustworthy yet," I answer lightly. "I can't even sit here without your permission," I add, tipping my head back toward Lef and Dils who watch with anxious readiness.

"Sure he can sit here," she says jovially, patting the empty seat. "We're old friends." I slide into the space, but just as the guards are relaxing, she adds, "Peeta and I had adjoining cells in the Capitol. We're very familiar with each other's screams."

A thick silence falls over the table and I feel Lef tense behind me. Annie, shuddering, presses her hands over her ears and her eyes lose focus. Finnick glares and wraps an arm around her. Everyone says this is exactly the type of moment I'm supposed to be so good at smoothing over, but I can't think of anything to say. More lies about who I am.

"What?" Johanna asks defensively. "My head doctor says I'm not supposed to censor my thoughts. It's part of my therapy."

Everyone shuffles their food around in silence while Finnick soothes and cajoles Annie out of her distress. I watch in morbid curiosity while the whisper chants its fury. Annie wasn't even the one screaming. Why does Finnick get to be angry when it was Johanna who screamed? Who burned. He's married, he has a family, while we have nothing but our scars. The unfairness chokes me and I can't force myself to eat.

"Annie," Delly chirps, relieved to have thought of something pleasant, "did you know it was Peeta who decorated your wedding cake? Back home, his family ran the bakery and he did all the icing."

Delly's comment brings my father to mind, how he would expect me to help Annie. I remember walking past her cell, the horror in her eyes. Even though it wasn't her, she knows what happened, what Johanna and I screamed about.

Annie leans forward, trying to keep Johanna out of her line of sight. "Thank you, Peeta," she murmurs. "It was beautiful."

"My pleasure, Annie," I reply, and I mean it.

"If we're going to fit in that walk, we better go," Finnick says briskly, gathering both their trays. He holds her hand tightly, proprietarily, as if he can protect her from anything. As if anyone is safe. Finnick, who has everything, and doesn't know how quickly it can all be lost. "Good seeing you, Peeta," he says mildly, but the whisper hears mockery, taunting.

"You be nice to her, Finnick," I say, equally mildly. "Or I might try and take her away from you." My voice sounds harsh in my ears, goaded by the whisper's jealous fury.

"Oh, Peeta," he responds, his voice calm, but his sea green eyes holding wary concern. "Don't make me sorry I restarted your heart." They move toward the door while I clench my fingers on the edge of the table. I can feel my control starting to slip. The constant chatter around us twines with the buzzing hate of the whisper and I have trouble muffling it.

"He did save your life, Peeta," Delly's voice is reproachful. "More than once."

"For her," I retort, nodding at Katniss who sits silently, back stiff and gray eyes icy with judgmental disdain. "For the rebellion. Not for me." How dare she look down on me like that? She, who has lost nothing. "I don't owe him anything," I finish decisively.

"Maybe not," Katniss cuts in coldly. "But Mags is dead and you're still here," her contempt making it obvious she wishes it were the other way around. "That should count for something."

"Yeah, a lot of things should count for something that don't seem to, Katniss," I reply, and the anger is mine, not the whisper's. I'm so sick of her saintly act, as though she is beyond reproach. "I've got some memories I can't make sense of, and I don't think the Capitol touched them. A lot of nights on the train for instance."

She goes instantly pale and I know she understands me. She knew how I felt about her, knew how it killed me to spend nights with her wrapped in my arms because she needed to feel safe. Knew I broke my heart every night knowing it would never be returned. Knew I swallowed it because she needed it. But she took what she wanted and kicked the rest aside when she no longer had need for me. When she was home with Gale.

"So, are you two officially a couple now, or are they still dragging out the star-crossed lover thing?"

"Still dragging," Johanna replies with a shrug.

The sudden scream in my head sends my hands clenching into fists and they fly out as if to claw for eyes. I force them flat on the table and Lef rests a subtle hand against my back.

"I wouldn't have believed it if I hadn't seen it myself," Gale drawls in a low, scornful voice.

"What's that?" I ask, fighting to keep my voice steady.

"You," he answers cryptically and I sting from the judgement so sharp in his voice.

"You'll have to be a little more specific. What about me?"

"That they've replaced you with the evil-mutt version of yourself," Johanna supplies helpfully around a mouthful of stew.

Gale and Katniss rise together, barely acknowledging me as they make their way to the door. Delly is positively vibrating with anger and I clench the edge of the table to control the shudders breaking over me in waves.

"How could you?" Delly demands, blue fire blazing from her eyes. "Why would you treat her like that?" Her cheeks are pale except for two spots of color radiating her disappointment in me.

I try to answer, but my mind is filled with images of Mutt Katniss, her burning fury and the smoldering ruin in her wake. My heart bangs against my ribs in agonized memory of all the nights spent holding Katniss tight and safe. Guarding her in her sleep, keeping watch for the need to throw myself in front of whatever threat appeared in the dark. Her eyes, dark and yearning for my comfort.

"I do. I need you."

"Mags is dead and you're still here."

"Stay with me."

"What if he proposed to me in front of everyone?"

A crashing din of voices swells over my head against the stream of Delly's furious blame. A shuddering tearing I can feel in the deepest part of my chest and waves of hurt come rolling up to cascade over me in dark, swirling depth. All the pain and rejection and confusion I've locked away in the deep recesses of my mind burst from their vault in furious tides of screeching clamor.

"She left me!" I growl, my eyes flying wildly from Delly to Dils.

"She had no choice," I mutter in gritty denial.

"She planned it all along."

"She didn't know, either."

Lef's eyes register a growing alarm, blooming from confusion to fear, and as the two giant guards move toward me, hands outstretched, I feel the whisper's furious joy as it breaks free of the restraints I've held in place for so long, shrieking its way through my shattered and broken mind and tearing loose on raging wings of blazing flame to destroy and burn and kill. I sink under the darkness as Lef and Dils close over me, my strangled howl echoing in the black emptiness as I fade.

"She loved me…."


	21. Chapter 21

Alone in my room, I cradle my head in my hands. I haven't been out since the disastrous dinner three nights ago. My head throbs constantly and I can't focus my eyes for long periods of time. My chest is a deep, hollow ache of emptiness and loss. Aurelius hovers anxiously and I can't even muster the energy to resent him.

Cilla stands at quiet attention outside my room. I'm sure Lef and Dils have filled her in on how I became a complete raving lunatic in front of the entire district, arguing with myself as though I were two totally separate people. I cringe away from the memory. Coin's plan to make the citizens more comfortable around me imploded spectacularly, yet, strangely, when she looked in on me yesterday, she seemed nothing but pleased. A spark of curiosity pushes its way through the misery.

"Cilla," I call. She sticks her head around the door immediately, her pleasure at me waking from my stupor of depression lighting her honest face.

"Yes?"

"Can you walk with me down to the restroom?" I ask. I need to talk to her, but not in front of the mirror. She looks rightfully puzzled.

"Really? Do you want me to call Dils?"

"No, I don't need anyone to go in if it's empty. I just want you with me in the hall, if you don't mind?" I give her the half-smile I know she finds impossible to resist. I've learned manipulation from the best of them.

We start down the hallway, mercifully empty. After a moment, when I'm sure we won't be overheard, I pause and turn to Cilla. She watches me with alert readiness.

"Cilla," I begin in a cautiously low voice. "What do you think of President Coin as a leader?"

Her eyes light immediately with the eagerness of a zealot. "She's saved us," she replies glowingly. "If not for her, we never would have made it this far. She's saved us," she repeats. Her tone is natural enough, but the words have a rehearsed quality to them, like she's heard them repeated for ages.

"She seems really capable," I agree, nodding along. "She has to make some tough decisions, I would imagine?" I prompt gently.

Cilla's bright eyes dim ever so slightly. "Well," she hedges uncomfortably. "Sometimes, the good of the many outweighs the good of the few." Snow's party line. "Sometimes choices have to be made to protect us, to keep us safe. She's saved us," she replies determinedly.

"I can see that," I say soothingly. "You guys have survived against incredible odds. She must really be a strong leader."

Cilla nods vehemently, pleased to be back on safer ground. "We should get you back," she says briskly. "Let's get going."

Back in my room, I sit on the edge of the bed and stare at my reflection in the mirror, studying the stranger glowering back at me. Someone used by the Capitol, used by Katniss, used by the rebels, used by Snow. Now, it would seem, I'm to be used by Coin. _weak useless impotent puppet_ My jaw clenches as I sit straighter. I pull my shoulders back and watch as the blue flame lights deep within my eyes. My father's eyes.

Turning away from the glass, I pull my sketchbook to me. I fight the throb in my head away, flipping to an empty page. My pencil flies in strong, confident strokes. Forcing down the ache behind my eyes, I pull forward every memory I can scrape together, every corner and shadow. The Hob, the main street, the Seam, the Justice Building. The mine, the fence, the trees beyond. I sketch District 12 in the best detail I can, the memories coming thick and fast. Working late into the night, it takes me hours, even a simple bird's eye drawing, but I want to capture every facet of my home. I want to honor the people who lived there with me. The people who lived their lives under the heel of the boot that eventually crushed them merely because it could. I try to remember where I came from, even if I can't remember who I am. I want to remember that anyone I actually owe any allegiance to is gone, so that I never let anyone use me again.

The next morning after breakfast Cilla knocks lightly, waiting for my invitation before swinging the door open.

"Finnick Odair is here and would like to see you," she reports, concern radiating off her.

"It's ok," I answer truthfully. "He can come in."

I tuck my sketchbook away under the mattress, standing to meet Finnick as he comes around the door, his sea green eyes registering surprise to see me dressed and standing. I smirk wryly.

"Hello, Peeta," he drawls, stopping just close enough for me to reach him.

"Finnick. Did they send you to reconnoiter since I'm not sobbing into my porridge today?"

His lips quirk slightly and he nods, acknowledging what I already guessed. "You know it. How are you? You seem…better."

I snort a bitter laugh. "Well, I'm only speaking for one right now, so I guess that's better. You?"

His bright smile flickers cynically. "I'm well, thanks. If you actually care."

I flush, dropping my eyes. "I'm sorry about what I said," I tell him sincerely. "That was out of line. And you've been nothing but courteous to me, regardless of why you have been."

He watches me steadily, not replying for a long time. Then, he seems to decide it isn't worth debating and shrugs lightly. "Apology accepted. Thank you. In fact, I brought you something I thought might help a little."

From a pocket of his jumpsuit, he pulls a short length of worn rope and holds it out to me.

"When they had Annie, I was out of my mind. I didn't know what was happening and could only imagine the worst. You can't swim here, and there isn't room to really walk even, so I kept my hands busy, and it quieted my mind a little. I tied knots."

I run the piece of rope through my fingers, the softness speaking to how he must have been working at it. I meet his eyes steadily. It must have been terrible for him, knowing what Snow is capable of, and knowing Annie was at his mercy. "Thank you, Finnick. I appreciate it. Especially after I was horrible to you. Thank you."

Finnick shrugs, a particularly elegant gesture, "That's what made me think of it. You really need something to occupy yourself. You're going to eat yourself from the inside out if you don't get something to do soon. What do you think you'd like to do around here?"

It's my turn to shrug. "I don't know. I'm good in the kitchen, but they seem to have all the help they need. I thought maybe down here, in the hospital, but no one is going to want me around them after the other day. Maybe they'll hand me a broom." I envision my future stretching before me, nothing but the whisper echoing in empty corridors as I push a broom over the cold floors, armed guards shuffling along behind me.

I laugh suddenly at the melancholy picture. Something about mighty and falling. "Can you show me some tricky ones?" I ask, holding the rope toward Finnick.

He eyes me warily, my abrupt guffaw having caught him off guard, but he nods. "For a price. Will you make me a sketch of Annie? A smallish one I can carry with me?"

I roll my eyes in fake mockery, but really, it settles the thrum in my chest to know there is happiness blooming in the world. Like a bright flower after a cold winter, hope returns.

The next day, Cilla taps a quick warning on the door, but before I can reply, Coin sweeps into the room, Boggs conspicuous by his absence. Her ice blue gaze is pinned to me, gauging and judging as always how I can best be of use to her.

"Good morning, Peeta," she offers perfunctorily. "I'm told you are frustrated in looking for a way to be useful to the district?"

"Good morning," I reply smoothly. "Should I be surprised that you've already thought of a use to put me to?"

Her gaze sharpens almost imperceptibly. I try to look innocuous, the last thing I want is for her to start thinking she has underestimated my wellness. An ill-informed enemy is always a better option. The sizzle of suspicion pitches the whisper into a roar and I clench my fists behind my back, fighting to remain impassive.

"I have," she replies after a quick moment of consideration. "Annie and Finnick were kind enough to share their wedding with the nation, and we have footage of Johanna and the Mockingjay training for combat. But the nation is clamoring for news of you, Peeta. They want to know you are recovered, that you are ready to fight."

"Do they?" I ask. "I feel like the only the message they've heard from me has been to stop the fighting. What do they think changed my mind?" I watch her stutter for a moment, letting her dangle in uncertainty before stepping in. "Not that it matters. Showing the citizens that I'm battle-ready will boost morale for our side and terrify the others. It's a great idea, President Coin." Her eyes flicker ever so slightly, and I worry I may have overdone it, but she's so used to being fawned over, the warning flag slides right by her.

"Excellent," she says briskly. "I'll have your guards accompany you to training first thing in the morning. You are doing a great thing for the rebellion, Peeta."

"I'm just glad to be of any service at all, President Coin," I reply modestly. "Will I be training with Commander Boggs?"

Her gaze flicks to the mirror, confirming my suspicions. He thinks this is a bad idea. "He's training the forces preparing for a current mission," she covers smoothly. "You'll be under Soldier Deen, we're starting you off rather slowly. Until you're healthier, of course."

"That's very considerate, thank you. I guess I better rest up today."

With a curt nod, she spins on her heel and exits without another word. I feel like spitting on the floor to get the syrupy flattery out of my mouth. I'm a little concerned at how easily this kind of slippery manipulation seems to come to me, but for now, I only concentrate on the opportunity that just walked into my hands. Coin is going to help me get my body strong, let me out where preparations are being made, maybe let me near enough to hear plans. I'm going to start making plans of my own.

The next morning, Lef and Dils are openly apprehensive as I prepare for a day of training. Cilla watches anxiously from her post at the door, adding her voice to the concern.

"That strap goes under your arm. Do you really think pretending you're fighting is the best way to keep yourself under control?"

"I'm fine," I assure them for the hundredth time, finally seeing how the buckle works. "We're just doing workouts, not storming enemy bases. The scariest thing is going to be how quickly I collapse from exhaustion. What does this thing even do?"

Dils shows me how the hook cinches across my chest, snugging it tight. "You have the arm piece upside down, that's why it's hitting your wrist. Maybe they'll just let you train in getting dressed for the first few days."

"Maybe you can be my first target practice," I shoot back, but grin at the excellent jab. "Look, you guys are the best. Thank you for looking out for me, but - " my breath catches in the middle of the brushoff. I think these are actually the only three people in the world who honestly care about my well-being. Humbled, I choke on the lump in my throat, unable to speak. I reach out and squeeze Dils' arm, smiling at how easily I can touch another person now, knowing that I really do trust these three who were set to guard me against harming others, but have helped me heal myself.

"You guys are the best," I repeat softly. "I'll be careful, and I'll tell you right away if I need help. I promise." I meet their eyes steadily, making the promise to each of them.

Lef meets my gaze, nodding solemnly in a return promise. "Let's go," he says, voice gruff, and we all smile sheepishly at the heavy moment. I wink at Cilla on our way out and she watches with obvious worry as we move down the hall toward the stairs. This time, the ascent makes me giddy with anticipation. This time, we're actually going outside.

My legs tremble slightly at the idea. I haven't been under the open sky for months. My lungs yearn for the clean air, my skin aches for the warmth of the sun. I'm almost sprinting up the stairs, but my eager lungs are also far out of practice and I have to slow immediately. My legs begin to tremble for a completely different reason and I pause, almost at the top. I don't want to meet my commander sweating and wheezing. Lef and Dils grin at each other, reassured I won't have the strength to harm anyone even if I do lose control of myself.

"Shut up," I gasp, and their smiles widen while they wait. When I can breathe normally, Dils punches the keycode to open the door and I throw my arm up against the glare of the morning sun blazing overhead.

We move outside into a large, contained area, walls on all sides, but the enormous, wide open sky sails endlessly overhead. The scent of the surrounding trees fills my nose, along with the cool freshness of air that hasn't been breathed by a thousand pairs of lungs before my own. A dizzying swirl of birdsong, people talking, and just the general rustle of outside bangs through my skull, the whisper answering with furious screeching and hate. I start to feel a tipping vertigo, the ground swinging and tilting beneath my feet.

Lef and Dils are strong hands at my side until I regain my balance. It takes a minute to get myself together, but I have no patience to wait. I want to look at everything, to drink in the fresh newness and the bright warmth.

"Soldier Mellark?" The rough voice is right at my elbow and I turn to see a tall, wiry woman with a doubtful stare sizing me up.

"Soldier Deen?" I ask in return, pulling my body to attention, but unable to drag my eyes from the deep, rich blueness of the sky.

"We're over here," she gestures to a group of young soldiers who are running through basic calisthenics together. Dils subtly shoves me to follow her and my feet move automatically, but I still can't tear my eyes away from the sky. It's endless.

I eventually find a rhythm where I can participate in what's asked of me while watching the world furtively, instead of gaping like a lobotomy patient. The whisper squeals incessantly but the unbridled joy of being outside, coupled with actually using my muscles to stretch and work drowns it to the point where I can function with only minor attention focused on quieting it. I wonder if I can actually start to remember what being happy feels like.

Just as the thought rolls through my mind, my eyes fall on another training group across the yard. Johanna stands next to Katniss who is glaring at me with naked fury. Every line of her vibrates her anger across the small distance. I smile to myself as I turn away, back to the sweet ache of muscles pushed hard and lungs pulling for clean, fresh air. Back to my view of distant treetops, nodding in a slight breeze as it sweeps across the vast, open sky. Katniss Everdeen means nothing to me.


	22. Chapter 22

From the cover of the trees, I watch her sleep. My spear is at the ready, and ears are alert for any small sound. The stillness of the jungle amplifies every insect's chitter, every branch's creak. But I listen for a tell-tale footfall, a shift or breath that will give away those who hunt us. My eyes scan the treeline and I fight with all my strength to stay awake. My traitorous body cries out for sleep, for respite, but if I lose this battle for even a minute, it could spell disaster for both of us. They will never touch her. I won't allow it.

With a groan, I roll onto my back and my eyes crack open, stinging and gritty against the dull light of my lamp. "I get it already!"

I scrub my hands over my face, staring at the ceiling. The same dream, every night now. Ever since my first day of training, the exact same scene has played out every night. Nothing happens, just the heavy intensity of purpose. I'm watching over Katniss, willing to give up my own life if necessary. And I'd be grateful to do it if it meant keeping her safe.

Is it possible they're drugging me somehow? Manipulating my dreams even? I wouldn't put it past them. What else would explain this kind of consistency? It's like a tape almost. Exactly the same every night, and evoking this slavish feeling of protectiveness.

I haul myself to sitting and reach for my sketchbook, flipping through the pages and watching my drawings evolve. In the front, the sketches are rougher, like my hands had forgotten how to do this. But as the pages flip past, lines are more sure, angles more convincing. The same evolution shows in the subject matter. Drawings lose their dark, threatening quality as light begins to emerge, a smile or twinkle in an eye instead of drawn brows and pressed lips. It's like watching myself get better.

I turn to the first drawings of Katniss. Talons, flaming wings, destruction litters her wake. There aren't many images of her, but the latest has a darkling glare across the lunch table as she accuses me of taking Mags' life. All of hers portray mistrust, blame, fury. I turn to a memory of Haymitch, eyes bright and smile wide as he wins against Lef in cards. Even Haymitch would appear to have been forgiven. I try to think of a time in 13 when she's looked at me without hostility, but I can't. Granted, I did try and kill her my first night here. A tug pulls at my lips and I take a deep breath in. I need to expel whatever it is bringing on these nightly vigils.

Slowly turning the pencil against a sharpener, a new gift of trust from my guards, I concentrate on the dream image, pulling it back into my mind in all its detail. Not only the dim, heavy jungle, but the determination that drives each beat of my heart. I will keep her safe. When I can hold the feeling as though wrapped in it right now, I focus on the details of her sleeping form, and I begin to draw.

Her long legs, stretched out on top of each other. The curl of her fingers against her palm. The loose curl over her forehead. Her mouth, relaxed in sleep, loses its tight determination and droops softly. As my pencil fills in her dark lashes brushing smooth cheeks, I remember watching her sleep on the train. How it was such a relief to see her body finally relax after a nightmare, feel her pulled up tight against me, as though she couldn't get close enough. Only that security allowing her to find sleep again in the rocking darkness threatening to swallow us both.

My hand stills and I forget to breathe as I become aware of what I'm thinking. Immediately, images of her screaming and blazing across the sky crash through my skull and my hands shake as I grit my teeth against the torrent. But I force myself to hold the visions in my mind, force them into clear focus. Under this direct scrutiny, they waver, shimmering and sparkling and disintegrating at the edges.

Gasping for air, sweating and trembling, I collapse back onto the bed as Dils rushes in, concerned and anxious for me. I shudder and quake, but I shake my head, waving him off. I'm alright. He watches intently, unable to think how to help. When I can finally speak, I thank him, telling him it was just a nightmare. He moves back to his post, clearly unhappy about leaving, but I need to be alone for a moment to think.

I'm unable to bring back the clarity of the memory of the train, it's like trying to focus on something with the corner of my eye. It flits away whenever I bring it forward, replaced by a shrieking demon. Unable to recapture the memory itself, I lie back, studying my drawing of the dream, considering the feeling of connectedness it evoked. My chest aches as though around an old wound. I'm aware of a deep emptiness as I remember the feeling of being connected to her across space, even when separated by miles.

Sitting up suddenly, I glare accusingly at the mirror. Where is this melancholy coming from? I'm more certain than ever that they have found a way to slip something into my food, or my water. How else to explain this relapse back to the soppy puppy who followed her around, eagerly lapping up any crumbs of attention she carelessly dropped for me? I intentionally think of the cave in the first arena and the image of her screaming with bloodlust as she sets the forest on fire around me, trapped in the dark rock as it becomes an oven to consume my burning flesh.

Something pulls at my attention but I can't put my finger on it as I determinedly grip the edges of the bed, forcing myself to watch her burn herself free of her wedding dress at the interview and emerge as a glowing, flaming-winged harpy screaming triumphantly. I know the images are false, but if Coin or Aurelius or even Haymitch are trying to manipulate how I feel about her, I will use any tools I have to counter it. I will not be used again.

I have it. The visions have an odd sparkle, they shine and shimmer weirdly. The thought pulls me from my focused concentration and I sit back, panting and sweaty. The whisper rages against the hope budding in my chest, blooming in a warm glow fizzing in my blood. Is it true? Are the images planted by the Capitol identifiable? All my visions of Katniss as a demon share the same twinkly edges and flares, but other images I can't make sense of don't have it.

Katniss asking me to stay with her in her room in the Victor's Village as she drifted into a drugged sleep. Why would she want me with her when we were home, away from cameras forcing her to pretend to care for me?

Spending our last day before the second Games on the roof of the Training Center. Her head in my lap as I make intricate knots from her curls. She wouldn't have wanted to spend a whole day together, not when we weren't being observed. Yet the image is clear of the glittering quality.

Shaking my head, I push away the confusion. At least some false memories can be identified. And that's better than it was. I reach for my prosthetic and my fingers move automatically to tighten straps and fasten buckles.

Lef and Cilla appear, ready to escort me to the restroom and then the dining hall for breakfast. I'm able to move around without shackles now, but I'm glad for their company as well as their protection against my hurting anyone. Only a handful of citizens are comfortable talking to me, encouraged, I think, by workers from the kitchen who were, I'm almost certain, threatened by Greasy Sae to make me feel welcome. Delly tried to sit with me once, but I don't want her ostracized too, so I asked her not to. My lips quirk as I remember how she dug her heels in until Lef convinced her she would set me off if she kept arguing. Handy, being nuts.

A bowl of hot grain and glass of water is breakfast today and I finish quickly, eager to get outside. My body is growing stronger every day and I was even able to run the entire five miles yesterday. My fingers are quick and deft, I can assemble and disassemble a weapon quickly enough to make Soldier Deen raise her eyebrows. I've switched sizes in jumpsuits, my clothes no longer hang in baggy wrinkles. I'm far from the top-condition I was in before the Games, but I'm no longer the wasted shell retrieved from the Capitol either.

When we push through the door into the bright morning sunshine, I pull a deep lungful of the sweet, clean air. The yard seems quieter than normal, and I look around curiously. There are noticeably fewer training groups settling in for the daily workouts.

Cilla sees my questioning look and offers, "Several groups left for the front lines. It will be a day or two before new squads are formed."

I'm unable to stop myself from scanning the yard for Katniss. I don't see her anywhere. Gale and Finnick are missing too, as well as Johanna. A pang in my belly that I'm unable to identify. Of course I'm worried for their safety, as I am for all the soldiers who've left, but there's something more. Is it because I feel left behind? They've all gone off together again, and I'm here under guard. Maybe, but I turn quickly to my work, defiantly ignoring the niggling voice that insists it's something else.

A few days later, Soldier Deen pulls me aside after training. "President Coin has asked me to evaluate your progress, Soldier Mellark."

Suspicion buzzes over my scalp, but I respond calmly. "What did you tell her?"

"The truth. You have made remarkable progress, but are nowhere near combat ready. You are strong and capable, but I have grave concerns about your mental readiness."

I grin. "That's fair. Thanks for letting me know." I turn to go, but she takes my elbow, drawing me to a stop.

Her eyes are somber and the warning in them catches me off guard. "You misunderstand, Soldier," she says slowly. "I advised you were not ready for combat, but she disagrees. She wants you ready to report in the morning. You'll be joining squad 451 under Commander Boggs."

My heart drops and I hear Cilla gasp behind me. Woodenly, I nod my understanding and turn blindly to make my way back to the stairs. The whisper is screaming elatedly, anticipating the destruction and chaos. And the chance to kill Katniss.

In my room, I stare blankly at the mirror. Coin doesn't do anything without a reason. She started training me under the false pretense of showing the nation I was recovering, but her purpose the entire time had been this. Coin wants Katniss dead.

I swore I would not let anyone use me again. Staring at myself in the mirror, I see yet another stranger looking back at me. This one is recovering. Muscles are harder and eyes are clearer. Scars are more faded and the back is straighter. This one, if given the chance, could hurt someone.

Sickened, I turn away. She sculpted me into exactly what she needed. And now, she is ready to unleash me to do her bidding. The whisper buzzes in eagerness, giddy with joy at the chance to destroy Katniss, tearing and clawing and choking.

It makes sense. Having been molded into a hero for the nation, Katniss now wields a power she probably doesn't even know she possesses. Whatever Coin has planned, it doesn't involve sharing power. Her kind never do. So anyone else with any must be eliminated. I choke back the bile rising in my throat. She is no different from Snow.

Whatever she thinks is going to happen after the war is settled, win or lose, Coin will be no better than Snow, I'm sure of it. She may look different, but her hunger shines the same way from her pale ice eyes and everyone here has swallowed her savior act whole heartedly. There's no one left to stop her.

Pacing in my room, I grip my hands in my hair, fighting away the screeching bloodlust of the whisper's ecstatic anticipation. I can't trust my own thoughts. I could be crazy, none of this may be real. I can't talk to my guards, besides being observed the whole time, they've swallowed the Coin propaganda themselves. I don't trust Haymitch or Aurelius. Finnick is gone –

I jerk my head up. Aurelius told me Johanna was back in the hospital. She cracked under some kind of combat test, flashing back to the Capitol. If anyone sees the situation clearly, it's Johanna. Unless she's back on morphling. I catch sight of myself in the mirror again. My eyes are wild and my shoulders hunched against the whisper, my hands plucking at my clothes. I look insane.

I push quickly out the door, catching Cilla off-guard as I brush past.

"Peeta! Where are you going?" she hurries after me.

"I need to see Johanna. Right now." I rush down the hallway to the forbidden third wing, Cilla jogging along behind, cajoling and demanding I come back. As I pass a partly open door, I see her. She's curled on a bed, one hand covering her head, one clutching something to her face.

I skid to a stop so abruptly that Cilla bumps into me. "Peeta, I don't know if you're supposed to be here. Just let me clear it, please."

"Go ahead. Why wouldn't I be allowed to see her? I'm leaving in the morning. I just want to say good-bye, ok?" My flushed cheeks and urgent manner deny the normal seeming request, but Cilla, searching my face, finally nods and steps back.

I knock softly and Johanna looks up, empty eyes sunken in her pale face. She nods slightly and I let myself in, pulling the door closed behind me. Johanna shifts and sits up in bed, but keeps a tight grip on the small bundle clutched in her fist. It smells faintly of pine.

"Hey," I offer lamely, sitting on the edge of her bed. "What's that?"

She shrugs and holds it out for me to see. "Katniss made it for me. It smells like home."

I nod my understanding while she stares at me with haunted eyes. "Katniss still has the pearl you gave her," she says in a low voice. "She keeps it with her. She doesn't think I see her, but she sleeps with it sometimes. She keeps it with her."

I don't know what to do with this. "I do. I need you." The image of her eyes is burned into my mind, but I don't know how to deal with it, so I stay quiet.

"I couldn't do it," she says finally, her voice a broken whisper. "I remembered being in the Capitol, and I just – I don't know… I just lost it." I take her hand, a clenched fist, and feel it trembling. She looks up at me, her dark eyes shining with tears in the low light. "Katniss promised she'd kill him."

I watch her steadily. "Katniss won't get anywhere near him," I tell her quietly. "Coin is sending me to join them in the morning."

Her eyes widen and I know I guessed correctly. Johanna has the exact same reaction I had. "You can't go, Peeta," she says, her voice straining with the urgency of her fear.

I shrug. "I have to go," I say resignedly. "I have to protect Katniss."


	23. Chapter 23

The next morning, Soldier Deen knocks sharply on the door, entering after a beat. I'm dressed and ready, my gear packed and boots laced tightly. I stand with my hands behind my back to hide the balled fists attempting to control the trembling.

"Good morning, Soldier Mellark," she says quietly, looking around my spare cell of a room, eyes lingering on the manacles dangling at the ready from the bed.

"Good morning." My voice is mercifully steady.

"I've spoken to President Coin," she begins, watching the mirror carefully. "It seems the squad you will be joining is not in heavy combat. She mostly wishes for you to help add some excitement to the propos which have been lacking in 'flair,' as Mr. Heavensbee puts it." She pauses, editing her comment before continuing, "I have lodged my formal dissent, it has been noted." Her words convey her warning clearly enough and I nod slightly, letting her know I understand.

"Thank you, Soldier Deen. I'll be careful. Will my guards be accompanying me to be sure I'm not a danger to others?"

She shakes her head tightly. "They've been reassigned already."

I flinch at this. Not even a chance to say thank you and good-bye. Reaped.

"There's one more thing," she says wretchedly. "Your squadron is positioned in the Capitol. The Peacekeepers have fallen back, but it's not undefended." She pulls out a handheld device called a Holo and speaks her name into it, activating the screen. At her next command, a digital image projects in the air over the device. It's a city block, the perfect square indicating streets of the Capitol. Small lights all along the streets, some even hovering in the air, blink in different colors. There are swarms of them. A shiver runs over my skin, even though I have no idea what they are. "These are called pods," she tells me. "They could be anything. Mines, mutts, snares, booby-traps. Anything to stop you from advancing. We have what we believe to be the most up-to-date information about their placement, but it is more than likely that new pods have been activated since we received this information."

My heart beats achingly against the icy grip squeezing it tight. "It's an arena," I say, my voice cracking with despair. I'm going into a third arena to protect Katniss Everdeen. Some people never learn.

Deen nods silently, her eyes flashing her regret. I turn my burning glare to the mirror, confident Coin is watching safely from behind the glass. My head tips back and I square my shoulders. Whatever she has planned for Panem, I swear to do my best to stop it. If she needs Katniss dead, I will keep her alive. I nod shortly to the glass, my father's eyes blazing back at me, then I turn away.

Soldier Deen accompanies me with a handful of jumpsuits to a helipad where we board a roaring hovercraft. I grip the sides of my seat and close my eyes against the flood of dreadful familiarity. A quick flight to an unknown arena. All I'm missing is a tracker in my arm. Instead, I have a blocky "451" stamped in fresh ink on the back of my hand.

When we set down, I look around curiously. We're near a train track, a stripped down high-speed train waiting with the door open. A haunting familiarity I can't place. As the hovercraft unloads supplies that will be coming as well, I stare at the brushy forest outside a tangle of downed fence line. Something pulls insistently at my mind and I walk around the front to the other side of the train, staring down the tracks toward an ashy ruin of a town. As I stand, transfixed, my vision wavers and I feel my legs begin to shake. A small marker leans haphazardly next to the tracks, a sign declaring on its burnt and twisted face, "District 12."

My legs give out and I drop to the ground next to the train. I stare at the distant rubble, the layer of ash smudging the detail, but bringing the horror into focus. I drop my head between my knees, fighting the nausea threatening to overwhelm me. I clench my jaw against the vision of my family, terrified and trying to flee the inferno, everyone we have ever loved wiped out in one blazing sweep. A tear creeps down my cheek, but I wipe at if fiercely. Pulling myself to my feet, I stare at the remains of my home, letting it etch itself in my mind. Swallowing the bile in my throat, I shove it down with the burning rage, the boiling scream for vengeance. When I return to the other side of the train car, my legs are steady and my breathing calm. Only my eyes blaze.

We ride the train in grim silence, the landscape blurring past with dizzying speed. Deen tells me the use of the high-speed train is restricted to only the rarest of occasions, the fuel consumption being deemed wasteful to the stringent standards of the district. The rest of my squad had travelled for days aboard a cargo train. For safety, we stop in one of the deep, black tunnels leading through the mountain to the Capitol and hike in the remaining six hours. The entire time, I imagine ways to ensure I'm cremated, not buried, at my death. If I'm never underground again, it will be too soon.

Evening has just fallen when we finally emerge behind the train station where I've shuttled in and out more times than I care to think about. Soldier Deen is assigned to another squad and points me through a door, saluting sharply before turning and disappearing down a long hallway. The camp stretches out for blocks in the wide open air, clusters of squads and tents dotting the area. I walk forward uncertainly, not sure where 451 is set up, when a clamor of confusion greets me.

Soldiers leap to their feet, weapons trained on me, fury and shock on every face. Katniss is pulled quickly behind Gale who glares with fierce protectiveness. They were given no warning I was coming.

Boggs strides forward with a furious scowl, stripping my gun off my shoulder before spinning wordlessly and marching away, barking for a communicator.

I stand alone in front of a crowd of angry soldiers. "It won't matter," I shrug. "The president assigned me herself. She decided the propos needed some heating up," I add nonchalantly. My joke falls on deaf ears, greeted only with seething resentment.

When Boggs returns, he looks like he's been chewing glass. He spits an order at one of his soldiers to set up pairs of guards to keep me under watch around the clock. Probably not the worst idea, really. He takes Katniss by the arm and leads her away, winding through the small village of tents until they're out of sight.

"Ok, then," I say, clapping my hands together. "Welcome party done, where should I set up?"

The soldier who seems to be second in command glares at me darkly. "Why are you really here?" she demands sharply.

"President Coin sent me," I repeat. "She thinks it will make the propos better to have me here with the other victors. Let the nation see us all together, fighting side by side. Oh, and you too, Gale," I can't resist adding.

He bristles predictably, brows drawing down and fists balling at his sides. But Finnick laughs out loud and steps forward, standing next to me to face the others. A grateful wave sweeps up from my toes to my scalp and my defiant front gets shaky for a moment.

"Peeta, this is Soldier Jackson, she's Boggs' right hand. Your first watch is Mitchell, he's terrible at cards, but at least he doesn't know when to quit betting. And this is Leeg 1, you're her sister's replacement. She triggered a mine."

I nod to Mitchell, but I meet Leeg's eyes steadily. A deep sadness, almost numbness, throbs in the crystal blue depths. "I'm so sorry," I say softly. "Were you able to be with her?"

She shakes her head tightly, but she meets my eyes and looks surprised to be asked. She shakes her head again, more gently, and looks away. "You can put up your tent over here," she mutters, and leads me to a small, clear spot near a heater. She and Mitchell stand by while Finnick talks to Gale in a low, quick voice. The giant's dark glare never leaves me, but I do my best to ignore it.

Setting my gear down, I unpack my tent and give it a quick shake. Concentrating on the task is difficult, the whisper has been at a frenzied scream ever since I arrived and my hands fumble the simplest jobs. Grinding my teeth together as another grommet slips loose because of my trembling fingers, I hear the stamp of boots behind me.

"What time is my watch?" she spits furiously.

A shudder runs up my spine at the hatred in her voice, but I continue with the tent, keeping my face turned away and hoping she doesn't see the heat I feel rise in my cheeks.

"I didn't put you in the rotation," Jackson answers uncertainly.

"Why not?"

A deep sigh. "I'm not sure you could really shoot Peeta, if it came to it."

At this, I straighten and turn to face the small crowd of soldiers. It's one thing to be discussed as though I were a wayward pig, it's another to completely ignore me as they chat about my murder. I meet Finnick's eye and catch him trying to pluck at Katniss' arm, but she ignores him and raises her voice so it carries through the entire camp.

"I wouldn't be shooting Peeta," she declares ringingly. "He's gone. Johanna's right. It'd be just like shooting another of the Capitol's mutts."

A silence drops over the squad and I feel my face burn with humiliation. How many of the people here think exactly that? How many of them see me as an animal? A roiling knot of shame burns in my belly but I keep my head up, forcing myself to meet their eyes.

"Well, that sort of comment isn't recommending you either," Jackson mutters.

But Boggs' deep voice brooks no argument. "Put her in the rotation."

"Midnight to four," Jackson sighs. "You're on with me."

A sharp whistle pierces the tension and the soldiers turn away, start to file toward the large tent in the center of the camp. "That's dinner," Mitchell says.

"Thanks," I reply, my voice steady through sheer force of will. "I'll just be another minute." But I stand quietly, hands at my sides, staring at the pile of the tent, unable to move.

"We can help," Leeg says softly, and Mitchell nods.

Together, the three of us have the tent up and my gear stowed in time to make the end of the line at the canteen. Dinner is spare, but hot, welcome against the autumn chill settling over the camp. The squad gathers together in a circle to eat, but the tension is palpable. I stay on the outer edge, trying not to draw attention to myself. Gale spends the entire meal glaring at me. The whisper shrieks maniacally.

As darkness falls, a new shift of guards takes over and my stomach drops as Gale saunters over with Boggs and a quiet, slightly older man with kind eyes.

"I want you where I can see you, soldier," Boggs rumbles. "You'll sleep in your bag, no tent. You know Soldier Hawthorne, this is Soldier Homes. They have eyes on you for this shift."

"Thank you sir, I feel safer already," I reply dryly as Gale smirks.

"Your safety is the least of my concerns," Boggs growls, spinning to return to his tent where he confers angrily with Jackson.

The squad is settling in for the night, some in the tents, some in sleeping bags outside. Katniss casts a glare of loathing my way before ducking inside. Mitchell is a small distance away, but Leeg is right next to me. She disappears inside, but I can hear her trying to muffle her crying through her sleeping bag.

Before going to sleep, Finnick wanders over and stands quietly, watching me with a curious tip to his head, gleaming bronze in the dim light.

"What are the chances, huh?" he asks. "The propos must really be awful if they decided they would risk sending you to spice them up." His eyes hold mine steadily, asking the question he can't voice.

I shrug, "I'm a pawn, I go where I'm sent." Gale snorts derisively, but doesn't comment.

Finnick pulls a short length of rope from a pocket and holds it out. "In case you forgot yours," he offers smoothly.

My hands shake slightly as I reach to take it. This tiny kindness sends my shaky grasp on control spinning. I can't speak for a minute and only nod gratefully, unable to trust myself not to break down sobbing or something worse. He nods back and moves away, back to his sleeping bag where I listen to him rustling around getting comfortable. In the glow of the heater I can see him smoothing something out before pressing it briefly to his lips. My sketch of Annie. A warm glow spreads over my skin that I was able to do something for him, return kindness with kindness.

With this in mind, I pull my sleeping bag up around my chest, trying to keep the chill at bay, and lean very slightly toward the canvas where Leeg's muffled sobs tear at my heart.

"I lost my brother," I offer in a low voice. A bare pause from inside the tent, a hiccup followed by a sniffling gasp. "Two brothers actually. My whole family really. They were in 12." My eyes watch the rope sliding in and out of my fingers, the knots forming and disappearing over and over. "My brother Jasper was my best friend. He loved me best in the whole world." My own throat tightens as I remember Jasper's fierce loyalty and warm humor. "I miss him so much," I whisper. "It's like my heart doesn't know how to keep beating the same way without him."

"Like a piece of yourself has been lost," her voice adds shakily in the dark. "How do you go on?"

"He deserved the best of everything life has to offer," I answer. "But since he doesn't get the chance, I have to make my life worthwhile. I have to be worthy of surviving." I hear the truth of this as I say it. I feel the weight of responsibility, of making my life matter.

"Thank you, Peeta," Leeg whispers. "Good night." I hear her sigh deeply and burrow down into her sleeping bag. Looking up, I find Gale's eyes on me, but, for the first time, they hold no hostility. In fact, is it pity?

"Jasper was a good guy," he says gruffly, his voice low. "Everyone liked him. He –he wouldn't leave because his neighbor's kid got scared and hid. He was trying to help find him. And your father wouldn't leave your mother behind. She didn't believe it would really happen, and he wouldn't leave her. He was trying to convince her right up until…until the end."

Tears burn in my eyes and my throat aches. I close my eyes and twist the rope tightly around my fingers, letting the pinching pain focus my mind away from the screaming crashing against my skull. "Thank you, Gale," I say quietly. "Thank you for trying to save them."

He nods, his eyes steady on the invisible horizon. I stare into the darkness, images of Katniss burning my home, my family, dancing before my eyes. The burned, ashen ruin behind the train this morning. Snow, threatening retribution for my non-cooperation. The rope slides in and out of my fingers, the knots forming and disappearing as I wonder hopelessly what is real and what is fantasy. Time passes at a snail's pace until, with a yawn and a stretch, Jackson emerges from her tent to take her turn on the watch. It must be midnight. I wind the rope in a hopeless tangle, fingers trembling and clumsy as Katniss climbs out into the open and settles onto a stool, stiff and tired she stares at me, her eyes empty.

I keep my gaze on the rope, the knots appearing and disappearing in my inexperienced hands. The whisper screams mayhem and hatred as I wonder over and over again. Fantasy or reality? True or false? Real or not real?


	24. Chapter 24

The air carries a deep chill and my sleeping bag is snugged up tightly around my chest. My fingers work endlessly at the rope, knots forming and disappearing over and over. My thoughts are with my family, Gale's story having torn a new, gaping hole in my chest. I don't know if he's telling the truth, he may have been perfectly happy to leave them to their demise. But since I can't tell fact from fiction, I choose to believe he tried. The cold makes my hands clumsy and it takes more concentration than usual, a good thing. Katniss and Jackson make low-voiced small talk, but only in small spurts. Mostly Katniss watches me.

Her gray eyes never leave me, but in the dark I can't read her expression. Her words from before echo endlessly against the constant mutter of the whisper's hatred in my head. "I wouldn't be shooting Peeta. It would be just like shooting another of the Capitol's mutts." She'd looked like she wanted to, right then and there. I wonder why she didn't. Does she trust Coin?

Why am I here, really? If I'm expected to kill Katniss, am I really in any position to say I won't? How much control do I actually have over myself? Maybe it was stupid to come, maybe I got cocky because I haven't attacked anyone for a while, thinking I was able to decide what my body will do at any given point. It might be a good idea to talk to someone here, see if anyone else suspects Coin's motives.

I run through the roster of soldiers in my mind. Gale and Finnick, of course, are following Katniss. Bent on destroying Snow and devoted to her. They'll kill me at the first suggestion I may be a threat. Leeg, Mitchell and Homes are just following orders. Will follow any orders, I imagine. Jackson is devoted to Boggs, she'll do anything he asks. So the lynchpin has to be Boggs. He must be privy to what Coin wants. Although, he was as surprised as any of them when I showed up. And as furious. And he seems truly fond of Katniss. Coin is playing him as well.

Katniss stares at me in the dark, her finger curled around the trigger of her weapon. She's ready to fire if I sneeze suddenly. Images from the other arenas flash before me. The tracker jacker nest, finding me in the stream, aiming her final arrow at me the Cornucopia, hauling me through the poisonous fog, leaving me in the jungle. Can all of these things be true? Are any? And does it matter? Now that she sees me as nothing more than an animal.

"These last couple of years must have been exhausting for you," I suggest into the dim light. "Trying to decide whether to kill me or not. Back and forth. Back and forth."

Her mouth tightens predictably, but she doesn't loose whatever venom her instinct tells her too. Instead her voice is surprisingly gentle. "I never wanted to kill you," she offers softly. "Except when I thought you were helping the Careers kill me. After that, I always thought of you as…an ally."

"Ally," I repeat doubtfully. The whisper squeals in protest against the images her words provoke. Nothing in any interaction I have had with her since coming to Thirteen speaks of an alliance between us. I can't trust any of the memories I have of her from before that, she takes too many other forms there. "Friend. Lover. Victor. Enemy. Fiancée. Target. Mutt. Neighbor. Hunter. Tribute. Ally." I run through them out loud. "I'll add it to the list of words I use to try and figure you out."

She watches me wordlessly while I keep my eyes on the rope twisting between my fingers. As if torn from me, I confess, "The problem is, I can't tell what's real anymore, and what's made up." My voice cracks with the despair of my hopelessness. I am so lost.

Finnick's voice drifts out of the darkness. "Then you should ask, Peeta. That's what Annie does."

"Ask who?" I cry desperately. Annie's love was waiting for her with open arms. She could believe anything he told her. No one wanted me back. "Who can I trust?"

"Well, us for starters. We're your squad," Jackson offers.

"You're my guards," I counter. Strangers, sworn to a person I'm certain wishes me destroyed.

"That, too," she agrees. "But you saved a lot of lives in Thirteen. It's not the kind of thing we forget." Her voice is soft, but firm. I hear her conviction.

I cling to the thought. I hope it's true with more frantic desire than I've felt in quite a while. If it's true, if I helped save even one life, I haven't been a total waste. I think of my family, all the families of Twelve, scattered and panicked, because of me. Their homes and lives engulfed in flame while I could do nothing to help. While Gale tried to save them. While I did nothing.

But maybe it's true. Maybe I was of some help to the citizens of Thirteen. And maybe I can be more help to them still. I can stop Coin from whatever she has planned for them. I can start by protecting Katniss from her.

She watches me still, eyes dark in the dim light. Protecting her is the last thing she thinks I'm here for. She hates me, wishes I was dead. And I can't understand, what could she have meant, she thinks of us as allies? None of my thoughts make sense, I can't trust any conclusions or instincts. But maybe I can start over. This has a ring of familiarity to it as well. On the train, for the tour, trying to bridge a chasm between us. Trying to become friends.

"Your favorite color…it's green?"

A tiny shudder runs over her hands. Does she remember, too? "That's right. And yours is orange."

"Orange?" I ask doubtfully. The flare of the color is too harsh for me. Maybe I was wrong about her remembering too.

"Not bright orange. But soft. Like a sunset." Her voice is low, almost reverent. "At least, that's what you told me once."

"Oh," I close my eyes. The violent flame and strident brass fade and my mind's eye is filled with a gentle, glowing coppery tinge. The last gasp of the bright coin of the sun as it slides beneath the horizon, its glory lingering behind in gilded edge clouds and golden streaked skies. Katniss and I stand on the roof of the Training Center, drinking it in. I was more content than I had ever been. "Thank you," I whisper.

Her words rush out, fighting each other to be first, scrambling over each other. "You're a painter," she chokes. "You're a baker. You like to sleep with the windows open. You never take sugar in your tea. And you always double-knot your shoelaces." And then she's gone, the canvas tent swallowing her up as though she had never been.

I'm left alone, reeling in the freezing pre-dawn, my toes going numb in my double-knotted boots.

Once the sun comes up, the camp begins to stir. My hands are clutched in my armpits, my cheeks and the tip of my nose icy and stiff. I haven't been able to sleep, though I pretended to when the next shift of my guards came on, Finnick being particularly worried about me.

After breakfast, the camera crew takes off with Finnick, Gale and Katniss to shoot promo footage. Boggs insists I stay behind, not trusting me with a weapon. I can't say I disagree with him, though I wonder how he'll explain it to Coin. She obviously doesn't care if I'm in the propos, but she'll be angry I wasn't given the chance to snap with a loaded weapon and proximity to Katniss. I wonder if Boggs is beginning to suspect something, or if he's too far in her pocket already.

Leeg and Homes are my guards after the meal, but instead of standing at attention, Leeg pulls up a stool and sits next to me.

"Thank you for talking to me last night," she says in a soft, musical voice. Her crystal blue eyes are flecked with gold that catches the morning sun. "We've never been apart. I feel like half of me is missing. When we were both… when we were both here, they called us Leeg 1 and Leeg 2, to tell us apart. Now, I'm just Leeg." Her jaw moves as she clenches her teeth against tears.

Homes nudges her with his leg, "Actually," he says sheepishly, "you're still Leeg 1. It kind of stuck."

A watery laugh and she smiles up at him. "What I'm trying to say," she continues, shaking her head, "is if I can help you out at all, just let me know."

I consider her, trying to focus against the whisper's demands for me to claw at her eyes. "Do you know if I killed Brutus?" I ask hesitantly. The image of the giant Career at my feet in the jungle, smoking and jerking, has haunted my dreams.

She seems surprised by the question, but she nods. "You did. The last night in the arena. Before you tried to get back to Katniss."

I shudder, but only a small bit, and I don't have to fight for control. "Did I kill Rue?" I whisper.

"Oh, Peeta, no!" she seems horrified. "No, it was the tribute from One, you wouldn't kill her."

I feel a knot of agonizing remorse loosen, deep in my bones. My image of murdering the tiny girl has the odd shimmer of the memories I think are false, but the heavy weight of guilt has the deep ache of reality. "Thank you," I mutter.

Jackson, watching from nearby, steps forward. "We can all help you, Peeta. Ask us what you want to know. We can tell you if what you think is real or not real. It's in our best interest to help you, that's how you know we won't lie."

I watch her for a long moment, but her eyes are open and honest and she's right. The less of a loose cannon I am, the safer her squad is.

"Most of the people from Twelve were killed in the fire," I test.

"Real," she answers. "Less than nine hundred of you made it to Thirteen alive."

I tremble again, then ask the question I've been dreading. "The fire was my fault."

"Not real," she replies firmly. "President Snow destroyed Twelve the way he did Thirteen, to send a message to the rebels."

I feel the hot prickle of tears behind my eyes, the whisper screaming its defiance, and I have to pause to breathe for a few moments. To really accept it as truth. It's information I didn't know before, so there's no solid feeling of truth, but from the easing of the ache in my chest, I can tell I believe it.

Jackson splits the watches up so that Katniss, Gale and Finnick each have a partner member from Thirteen and this way I always have someone to ask if something is real or not real. The smallest details bring back floods of memories, some accompanied by false images I need to sift through, and all accompanied by rage from the whisper. It takes a long time to build the answers into understanding, but my squad is patient.

Gale tells me about life in Twelve, he knew Jasper and Uri and many of the same people I knew. He traded frequently with merchants who were my neighbors and even though he was from the Seam, he knows a lot about all aspects of life in Twelve.

Finnick was a mentor for my first Games, and was with me in the second. He answers my questions about the Capitol and the arenas. He understands Snow and the Gamemakers in a deeply personal way that I can't fathom until he explains how Snow used him after his victory. And how he took his revenge on Snow for that.

Katniss, and my memories of her, are the most problematic. The whisper pitches to an insane shriek when I try to ask anything of substance, and so many questions or answers invoke terrifying images that, even though I know they're false, seem so real that they send me gasping for air and gripping my hands together to keep from flying at her. We end up talking about nonsense like how much she loved the cheese buns I baked, or the dress she wore in Seven that was the exact shade of her eyes.

As she fills in these tiny details, seemingly insignificant, I become aware again of the feeling of a hole in my chest where there used to live a connection to her that reached across distance. Each small detail replaces a missing piece in the picture I used to have of her. I slowly build an image of her as a real, flesh and blood person rather than the image of heroism and hatred I've viewed her as up until now. It's exhausting and I drift into a troubled sleep riddled with conflicting images.

I sleep late the next morning, the deficit from the night before catching up with me. When I wake, the camp is in preparation for a new mission. As I eat a hasty breakfast, Boggs comes to join me.

"Morning, soldier," he rumbles. "I'm glad you got some sleep finally."

"Thank you, sir," I reply, trying to keep the suspicion out of my voice. Why the solicitousness all of a sudden, I wonder?

"Today's mission is a new propo Heavensbee hopes will add some excitement to what we've been giving them so far. It requires the entire squad to enter a deserted city block containing a couple active pods. One pod will simply net the invader, but the other triggers gunfire." I watch him carefully as he regards me, in turn, like a coiled viper. "I need to know your level of capability to handle this kind of situation, Soldier. President Coin has specifically requested that you accompany us, but if I don't feel you are ready for it, I will have no problem tying you up in a sack and leaving you in a tent until we return."

My smile breaks free at this unexpected honesty. The whisper's scream is a humming zing of excited bloodlust and I find it hard to concentrate. Maybe that's why I answer his honesty with my own.

"Can I ask you something, Boggs?" I watch his dark eyes steadily. "Is there any chance I'm here because I'm supposed to kill Katniss?"

Boggs flinches as though stung, his eyes narrowing and lips clamping to a thin line. "Are you trying to kill her?" he demands.

"No, sir," I reply. "That's why I would ask you to keep an especially careful eye on me if we're going into a situation you are uncomfortable with." He stares at me grimly, trying to work out how much to trust me. I press on, feeling my way carefully. "It makes you wonder, though, doesn't it? What the motives are behind it? What someone would have planned that required the disposal of anyone they see as a threat? And what kind of leader that person may be planning to be."

The words hang between us. I can see him running over what he knows of me, comparing it to his own fears. And I see him make his decision. I see the doubts solidify into plans.

"We're moving in ten minutes. Meet with the squad and be ready for orders." His voice is gruff, but has lost the edge of fury.

My eyes are distant as I gather my gear. With a little more time, a little more caution, I may be able to call him an ally. The word rings in my head. Two allies who don't trust me any further than they can throw me.


	25. Chapter 25

The television crew is busy as squad 451 gathers. The woman in charge is a striking, no-nonsense type with green vine tattoos winding over her shaved head. Definitely a citizen of the Capitol. I wonder how she ended up here. Did Plutarch bring her? If so, can she be trusted? She shoots quick orders to her crew, assisted by a slight, younger man who makes my throat clench over the knot rising in it. The way he carries himself, lightly, as though barely touching the ground. The sun glinting off his many piercings. The fire in his eyes. He is the spitting image of Selt. My heart aches and the whisper chitters with gleeful viciousness at my distress. Messalla, she calls him. I feel reality tip and sway as I reach back into my memory, trying to bring the name to mind, searching for any reference Selt may have made. The effort brings me close to passing out and I fight for air, fight to bring my body under control.

Clenching my fists, I battle the tremble in my hands and focus on the strangely insect-like appearance of the cameramen. They carry the gear strapped to their bodies in suits reminiscent of a shell. Obviously brothers, they share sandy red hair and beards, twinkling blue eyes and lips that seem always to be waiting to curve to a smile. One is garrulous and makes jokes and keeps up a constant stream of chatter. His brother, though quick to grin and with busy, expressive hands, doesn't get a word in edgewise.

 _you did this you did this you did this_

The whisper is a low, oily creep of blame. My vision begins to shudder as I watch the cameraman's mouth, unable to tear my eyes away. Something about his throat, the way he holds his jaw. Boggs marches up and hands me back the gun he took when I first arrived, eyes holding mine firmly.

"I've reloaded it with blanks," his voice carries clearly to the rest of squad.

I shrug, distracted by the hiss of the whisper. "I'm not much of a shot anyway."

Flashes of the table, Darius screaming in muted agony as his body is mutilated and torn so I will see it happen. His throat working as he swallows mouthfuls of his own blood.

A shudder runs up my spine and I clench my teeth against the scream that rages to burst free. The whisper is a high-pitched squeal that threatens to shatter my skull.

"You're an Avox, aren't you?" I gasp, and the cameraman turns startled eyes to me. The words scrape over my tongue, burning as if in retribution for his lack of one. "I can tell by the way you swallow," I continue, feeling the stares of the squad and knowing my words are worrying them, but the images surge over my head and threaten to pull me under. The crimson floods of his blood, the way her body arched against the restraints and smoked and jerked.

"There were two Avoxes with me in prison," my words are a rush, fighting to stem the visions shrieking with the scream's triumphant roar. "Darius and Lavinia, but the guards mostly called them the redheads. They'd been our servants in the Training Center, so they arrested them, too." My nails cut into my palms as I try to steady my voice, try not to let the darkness swallow me. "I watched them being tortured to death. She was lucky. They used too much voltage and her heart stopped right off. It took days to finish him off. Beating, cutting off parts. They kept asking him questions, but he couldn't speak, he just made these horrible animal sounds."

The cameraman watches me in sympathetic dismay, his brother's hand on his shoulder. I stare into his eyes, but I see Darius. See him wishing and waiting and hoping to die. "They didn't want information, you know?" My voice strains against the horror of it, the blurring frenzy of hope that this couldn't have happened. That humans couldn't do that to one another. "They wanted me to see it." I can't look at Katniss, can't contemplate why they wanted me to watch an innocent man die slowly and terribly.

The horror is reflected in the eyes of each person staring at me, I feel their insidious revulsion, feel them watch me as if I were something else they don't know how to deal with. "Real or not real?" I ask wretchedly, but they just stare at me. "Real or not real?!" I beg.

"Real." Boggs is quiet, stricken. "At least, to the best of my knowledge…real."

The hope that they manufactured it, that Darius could be walking the halls of the Capitol right now, drains out of me. "I thought so," I whisper, defeated. "There was nothing…shiny about it." Unable to bear their repulsed pity, I move away, running through the images in my mind, whispering apologies to Darius and Lavinia, asking their forgiveness in the empty air.

Moving out, we make our way through the empty streets, littered with the shards of glass the propo team has been shattering for the film makers. The shining debris and gaping windows remind me of being strapped to the chair, watching Darius scream on the other side of the glass. My vision pops and swirls as I fight to bring the chaos under control, and I bite my lip until I taste blood.

"Mitchell," I murmur quietly. My guard turns to me curiously. "Do you have any handcuffs on you?" I try to ask casually.

"No, but Leeg does," he answers. "Why?" His honest eyes are clouded with concern.

"No reason," I shake my head, unwilling to worry him. "Just wondering." I try to look engaged as Boggs activates his Holo and lays out his plans. Mitchell turns toward him eagerly, but I clench my jaw, trying to quiet the scream in my head.

Through the ringing I can make out their voices like they're muffled underwater. The camera crew sets up for the proper angles and I shiver as it brings to mind all the ways the Capitol manipulates reality and perception. "It's not the same," I mutter under my breath.

"What's not the same?" Homes asks.

"None of it," I reply, trying to hide my gritted teeth. "It's not like Snow."

He blinks at me for a moment before shaking his head. "It's exactly the same," he says in a low voice. "But an idea isn't a bad one just because a bad person uses it."

"When does lying to people to change their perception to the one you want them to have not make you a bad person?" I ask hollowly, not wanting to insult him, but the question burning in my throat.

"When it will save their lives," he answers steadily.

Smoke charges crack behind him and the air fills with the acrid, choking fumes. "Action!" The director's voice calls through the billows and suddenly the scream of gunfire is everywhere. Shattering glass rains down on us and bullets ping off walls and lamp posts. Mitchell pulls me flat against a building and I hunch my shoulders against the hail of ammo.

Then the pod is hit and bullets zip through the air as the squad rushes for cover. I crouch with my hands over my ears, but the pound of guns is nothing compared to the panicked scream in my head. The screams of the monkeys in the jungle had the same pitch and I feel lost in the images crashing through my skull. Jaws and talons and flying bodies. Desperation that I would miss one, that one would find Katniss and those snapping jaws would close on her. My heart is racing and my blood pounds in my ears.

Boggs shouts something and Homes nudges me forward. My feet move automatically, my vision filled with a steaming jungle and gripping claws reaching for me, ripping and grasping. _tear claw bite destroy kill_

I shake my head, trying to clear it, but unable to make sense of what is happening around me. The squad is falling to the ground, crashing into walls, diving for cover, but I can't find the threat they are reacting to. And they are writhing with over-dramatic grimaces, rolling their eyes and gnashing their teeth while the others howl and shake with laughter.

The confusion winds the panic even higher, my brain battling the images clamoring their chaotic roar while the people around me thrash and laugh to an invisible provocation. Boggs sternly commands them to pull themselves together, but even he is trying not to smile. Smiling as he tries to tip the Holo through the smoke to get a better view. Smiling as he steps backward onto the mine that blows him apart in a spray of blood and screams.

My vision blanks and I stand, swaying and staring blindly, before my knees buckle and I drop to the ground. Homes rushes forward, pulling a medic kit from his pack in frantic haste. Katniss is scrambling in the street, looking for something and Finnick is working over the director's assistant, knocked unconscious when he was blasted back into a brick wall.

Finnick's hunched back and quick hands send a cascade of visions through my head, accompanied by the whisper's chanting thrum of rage and fury and destruction. _blood wreckage chaos destroy kill pain crave blood destroy kill kill kill_ When he had bent over me, trying similarly to revive an unresponsive body. Boggs' bloody stumps where his legs used to be making my own leg throb with phantom memories of pain and loss. An arena closing its net around us as we fall, one by one, to the howling maw of the audience who watches with ravenous delight.

Finnick's voice is screaming behind us and I force my head up, turn to see the new threat. From the end of the street, a surging wave of oily black sludge is crashing between the walls, blocking out the sun as it gushes down the corridor, barricading us from any return the way we came. _die blood death danger tear claw kill kill kill kill kill kill kill_

Flapping in the light breeze are the tattered edges of a line of posters someone pasted to the ruined walls. From the shredded remains, Coin stares implacably down upon the destruction heaving below her, reminding me. I have to keep Katniss alive. Pulling myself to my feet, I grope my way toward Boggs, shoving the screaming rage of the whisper down and clenching my fists into trembling knots. My stomach heaves and bucks at the spreading pool of blood around him as he mumbles, glassy-eyed to the Holo before handing it to Katniss. She speaks her name, voice trembling, and then a green light flashes out, transfixing her. I throw myself toward her as gunfire erupts up the street, spinning to hold my weapon uselessly pointing at the danger. It's Gale and Leeg, spraying the street with bullets, trying to find hidden pods.

I turn back to Katniss and Boggs, reaching to help. A crashing explosion and a gaping hole opens in the street, the concussion knocking me sideways. My vision flashes and flares, battling the images of a swooping, screaming Katniss, raining fiery destruction on the fleeing, terrified citizens of District Twelve. The buildings surrounding us morph into the streets of home, burning and screaming fills the air. I grind my teeth and force my lungs to breathe, to pull air against their frozen shock and horror. I reach again, to help Katniss and Homes pull Boggs away from the open street.

The roiling blackness lifts behind us, crashing toward our panicked and chaotic group, bringing unimagined horror with it. We have to get out of here. And then Boggs, dragged by the two soldiers, begins to cry out. Lost in pain, he begs for them to stop, to stop hurting him. My muscles lock in rigid immobility and I nearly bite my tongue in two as my jaw clamps together, fighting the sudden scream of the whisper as Darius slams into view in front of me. Begging, pleading, bleeding, crying. My own voice screaming along with his. Powerless, beseeching them to stop. To stop hurting him.

But I'm just as powerless now. I feel myself slip beyond the shrieking din of the whisper. The cold, empty blackness closes over me and I am lost.


	26. Chapter 26

A rumble of deep thumps shakes me into consciousness. My back aches with stiffness and my legs feel weak and spent. The room spins and tilts around me, I can't get my bearings and my throat freezes over the instant panic of confusion. The heavy weight of cuffs around my wrists is juxtaposed against a soft, plush cushion under my head. Am I on a sofa?

There are voices murmuring around me, but I can't make out what they're saying through the confused screaming panic of the whisper as it rages and squeals in my ears. The room is unfamiliar, comfortably furnished with mid-rate chairs and rugs, a giant television screen, and a couple bedrooms visible down the hall. Where am I?

The light is odd, a filtered, dusty dimness. I make out Jackson, standing with her gun trained on me, but her eyes on the kitchen behind us. I'm about to call her name, but the television blares a squealing beep all of a sudden, the screen popping to life and everyone leaping nervously at the sound.

"It's alright," the director reassures them. "It's just an emergency broadcast. Every Capitol television is automatically activated for it."

My eyes are glued to the screen as memory floods back over me. The street is in chaos, smoke filtering through the dim light as the wave of black goo blocks out the sun. Boggs is sprawled in a glistening pool of blood, the ragged stumps of his legs pumping more into its ever increasing width. Crashing gunfire and screaming soldiers in the pandemonium of the squad's efforts to regain control fade to the outer edges of my vision as I watch one black-clad monster launch himself at Katniss. Blond waves gleaming through the dim, smoky light, he snarls and grabs her, ripping her backward, away from Boggs to throw her to the ground. Teeth grinding and eyes wild, he raises his gun over his head and sends it crashing down to smash her skull. She barely flinches out of the way in time and a flying tackle whips the killer to the ground, Mitchell pinning the straining, flailing assassin with his own body.

My vision strobes between the television screen and images from my own memory, the rapid shifts in perspective making me nauseous and I see Mitchell pressed over me, screaming my name and trying to break through to me. But I was an expert wrestler, I only ever lost three matches. With a lithe twist, I get my feet under his body and, my legs pistoning up, I launch him away from me. He flies backward to crash against the pavement, but instead of flopping there, a sharp pop and he's swept upward in the hidden net. Trembling, I watch as the blood pours immediately from the razor sharp wire trapping him.

Screaming and thrashing, I'm hauled along by two soldiers as the squad breaks into an apartment, fleeing the wave of oily black death. Everyone rushes inside. Everyone except Gale. He stands alone in the turmoil, facing the oncoming tide as he fires desperately at the cables suspending a moaning, bloody jumble of boots and arms. And then the view is swallowed by the ooze.

I watch in numb horror, unable to process what I just witnessed. That couldn't have been me, it was more like an animal. There was no reason in the eyes, the face a twisted mask of hatred and violence. A violent shudder runs over me. I've finally seen the face of the whisper.

The reporter drones on, an unaccountably normal voice against the nightmarish vision on the screen. Candy colored houses looking dipped in glossy poison, Peacekeepers in a stern line along a rooftop as the report lists us by name and narrows focus to the house we've huddled in. A hollow, aching hope in my chest as the soldiers fire a volley of shells into the apartment, only to give way to grief-stricken despair when the building on the screen shudders and collapses, the roof over my own miserable head remaining stubbornly aloft.

A hot ache behind my eyes as they replay the massacre on the street over and over. The whisper is a buzz of triumphant rage, a high, squealing ecstasy of ferocity. My chest burns with a roiling sickness of guilt and shame, my brain searching dully for a way out.

"So, now that we're dead, what's our next move?" Gale is ready to act. Ready to move again. Brave, heroic, single-minded Gale. His black and white vision of the world is clear. I can count on him.

"Isn't it obvious?" I ask, my voice startling the squad as they turn abruptly to me. I watch their eyes when they see I'm awake. Revulsion. Disgust. Blame. None of it can touch what I think of myself. I haul myself into a sitting position, he won't agree if he thinks of me as an invalid. I meet his gray Seam eyes and search for what I need to see there. Understanding of the threat I pose, his responsibility to keep the others safe. I see it. "Our next move," I tell him, confident he knows it too, "is to kill me."

An awkward hush falls over the group. Gale tightens his grip on his weapon and I sit straighter, thankful he understands.

"Don't be ridiculous," Jackson spits, and Gale's eyes flash to her. Doubt flickers over his stony features and he releases his hold on the gun, stepping back a little. Agony sears through me.

"I just murdered a member of our squad!" I scream at him.

"You pushed him off you," Finnick is all calm comfort. He puts himself between Gale and I as he tries to reason with me. "You couldn't have known he would trigger the net at that exact spot."

Finnick doesn't understand. It wasn't a mistake, it wasn't a plan gone wrong. I had no idea what I was doing. If Mitchell hadn't torn me off Katniss, Coin would have gotten exactly what she sent me here for. Who knows how many others I would have taken down with her? My mind spins in frantic bedlam. I am exactly what Snow and Coin planned for me to be. I am a piece in their game, no matter how hard I try, I cannot break free of their control. There is only one way to stop me from completing their objective for them. Surely, everyone knows this?

"Who cares?" I demand. "He's dead isn't he?" I can feel the hot slide of tears down my cheeks, but my mind is wheeling and crashing away from it, I can't let this happen.

"I didn't know," I plead. "I've never seen myself like that before. Katniss is right." I choke on the truth of the words. "I'm the monster. I'm the mutt. I'm the one Snow has turned into a weapon!"

"It's not your fault, Peeta." Finnick's voice is soothing reason and I can see Gale has lost the conviction from before. I'm losing my chance.

"You can't take me with you," I grind out, switching tacks quickly. "It's only a matter of time before I kill someone else." This hits some of them the way I want, but I can see them mentally shuffling their feet. They can't do it, they can't look me in the face and pull the trigger. I need to push them into action. "Maybe you think it's kinder to just dump me somewhere. Let me take my chances. But that's the same thing as handing me over to the Capitol." I press harder on the kindness keeping them from what needs to be done. "Do you think you'd be doing me a favor by sending me back to Snow?"

I know they get it, the way their bodies tense up and they look away, unable to meet my eyes.

"I'll kill you before that happens," Gale's eyes are hooded. He knows he's letting me down. "I promise." It's not enough.

I search desperately for another angle. They won't give me a gun now, not after what just happened. Can I get in front of the Peacekeepers without disclosing the squad's position? I'm being watched carefully, I won't be able to get close enough to anything I could use to – an idea comes.

"It's no good," I tell Gale firmly. "What if you're not there to do it? I want one of those poison pills like the rest of you have."

But I can see the doubt vanish from Katniss' eyes. The name, nightlock, must have brought back the memory of the first arena. The guilt wins out.

"It's not about you," she says decisively. "We're on a mission. And you're necessary to it." Her eyes sweep the squad, each has stepped back away from me and I know I've lost the battle for now. Pushing more will just make it harder. I have to wait. Grinding my teeth, I clench my fists and try not to scream back at the wailing siren in my head.

They split up, some guarding me as though I could leap for them at any moment. Though really, who am I to say I won't? Mesalla leads them through the apartment, it replicates one he lived in before and he points out where extra food could be hidden. They come back to the living room, dumping a pile of cans on the floor and beginning to root through them. Jackson nudges me off the sofa toward the food and I'm too numb to argue. I stand quietly while the others tumble cans over, looking for something that appeals to them.

One can rolls to my feet and stops there, label up. My breath catches in my throat and my vision wavers. The cave, Katniss wrapped in my arms in the sleeping bag, pressed tight against my chest. I could feel her heart beat against mine as she dozed contentedly, our bellies full of the hot lamb stew sent in by parachute just when we needed it most. It only lasts a split second before the winged harpy blooms across the image, but it's too late. I felt it.

"Here." I hold out the can and she reaches for it gingerly, not wanting to be impolite. Her hand freezes for a second, and I feel the faintest twinge in my chest, a bare stirring between us, a connection lost long ago.

"Thanks," she says nonchalantly, prying back the lid. "It even has dried plums." Her words echo and ring and I stand like an idiot, watching her eat with the lid as a spoon. Images crash and glitter in my head as I remember my fierce determination to keep her safe. The stew is a reminder of how hungry we were, how much we depended on each other to stay fed, to stay alive. I back away, the tremors starting in my hands as the whisper pitches ragefully against the gentler emotion. Standing away from the group, I watch them wearily as they hand around a box of cookies, sharing companionably. I came here with one clear objective, to keep Katniss safe from Coin. There is only one way for me to do that.

A sharp beeping from the television and the image of the seal fills the screen, the strains of the anthem rising behind it. Just like the sky of the other arenas, the faces of the fallen come next, everyone except Mitchell, Leeg and Jackson. There are no tributes from Thirteen.

An office, a desk, a flag on the wall behind. Snow is seated commandingly and surrounded by symbols of power. Though, he doesn't look well. I'm surprised by how dispassionately I'm able to evaluate him. He looks as though he's been ill, or had work done? His voice is stentorian, he's ditched the gentle patriarch act. He commends the soldiers for their part in the demise of the Mockingjay, going on to deride her as an empty symbol, a trumped up fairy story because the rebellion has no actual leader of note. Victory will be swift, and merciless.

A flicker, and Snow is replaced by the cold visage of Coin. They are literally interchangeable. She announces herself as the leader of the rebellion, and urges the fighters to carry on in the name of the martyred Mockingjay. She looks stonily triumphant until an image of Katniss, beautiful in her fierce determination and lit by dancing flames behind her, burns across the screen. It's a powerful message, exactly what Coin had in mind. Now she can make Katniss be anything she wants her to be, without the troublesome real person to deal with. A rallying point, a martyr, a rebel cry. My lips twist in disgust as the screen pops back to Snow, looking like he's swallowed nightlock himself. He grinds out a threat that when they drag Katniss' body from the rubble, the world will see her for the useless little girl she is and the seal glows over the anthem before the screen hums into blackness again.

"Except that you won't find her," Finnick murmurs, green eyes locked on the screen. What he says is true. Once they dig through the smoking pile of the building they bombed, they'll know we escaped their clutches. The Capitol will be after the squad with vengeful ferocity, and I have no doubt Coin will do her best to ensure no one ever finds out the Mockingjay is less of a martyr than she would hope.

They are making plans to flee, even though Katniss looks ready to drop from exhaustion. The Holo shows an impossible number of blinking markers over pods clustered in the streets and her shoulders droop despondently. After a quick conversation, it's decided that underground is the best option open to them. I shudder involuntarily.

Moving swiftly, we make the apartment look as though no one was there, at least as well as we can. Katniss slides a bolt through the hasp on the door and turns to stare at me with grim determination.

"I'm not going," I tell her firmly. She has to see the logic in this. "I'll either disclose your position or hurt someone else."

"Snow's people will find you," Finnick urges.

"Then leave me a pill. I'll only take it if I have to." It's obvious everyone sees through the lie.

"That's not an option." Jackson shakes her head. "Come along."

"Or you'll what? Shoot me?"

Homes plants himself in front of me and crosses his arms over his chest. "We'll knock you out and drag you with us," he threatens grimly. "Which will both slow us down and endanger us."

"Stop being noble!" I cry desperately. "I don't care if I die!" The truth of the words rings in the heavy silence between us. There is no other way to stop myself from spiraling even further away from the person I was. The person I can never be again. The person who wasn't a threat to others, a ticking bomb just waiting to detonate and spread destruction and horror.

"Katniss, please." I beg brokenly. "Don't you see I want to be out of this?" The whisper is a squealing pitch of hate and frantic threats, my mind a crashing jumble of images of horror and blood and pain. I ache with guilt and shame and I lift my pleading gaze to hers.

Her eyes are gray steel, and my heart breaks. She knows, she understands what she owes me. But she won't do it. She won't let Snow have that victory, no matter what it costs me. As ever, Katniss takes from me what she needs, regardless of the agony it causes me.

"We're wasting time," she says shortly, her voice low with the knowledge of what she's doing to me. "Are you coming voluntarily or do we knock you out?"

I drop my face into my hands, the whisper's relieved shriek of bloodlust chanting its hate and filth into the hollow emptiness of my chest. Black despair washes over me as I feel buried under the weight of it all. The endless, torturous, agonizing existence as a piece in someone else's game. Haymitch. Snow. Coin. Katniss.

Wearily, as though pushing against the weight of the entire world, I rise to my feet in defeat. Leeg suggests freeing my hands, but I snap at her, cradling them to my chest in the weighty metal cuffs. Katniss takes the key and slips it into her pocket. Moving through a fog of anguished misery, we continue our journey into the heart of the Capitol.


	27. Chapter 27

The squad is silent. Moving swiftly, we make our way through a maintenance shaft, past another apartment, into a second and down the hall to a tiny utility closet. Messalla deftly unlatches a metal cover, exposing a wide ladder leading deep into the blackness under the city. We all stare down wordlessly, the dim light strips beckoning and a nasty fug simmering up from below.

Pollux, the Avox cameraman, looks sick and grips his brother's arm tightly. "My brother worked down here after he became an Avox," Castor explains, his hand covering his brother's reassuringly. "Took five years before we were able to buy his way up to ground level. Didn't see the sun once."

His voice is bitter and grim, his brother's eyes reflecting the remembered horror. Another victim of the Capitol who will carry the scars forever. Another citizen who feels they are worth less because of their past.

"Well," I tell him gratefully, "then you just became our most valuable asset." Pollux returns the effort with a weak smile and takes a deep breath before beginning his way down the clammy rungs of the ladder.

He's about ten times braver than I am. It takes a questioning look from Gale before I'm able to force my feet to move toward the yawning pit. Every step down increases my feeling of being buried alive, of returning to the underground cells where I've been kept, molded and formed to be used to another's purpose. Every step down increases the insane jitter of the whisper's call for blood and destruction. I twist my wrists against the cold metal of the shackles, the familiar cold bite helping me focus and fight against the screaming demand.

Pollux proves invaluable as a guide. He knows the life of the sewers like Gale knows the life of the mines. He keeps us from physical threats like live wires or enormous rats, and from insidious dangers like cargo trains and camera eyes. We slog through the tunnels with single-minded determination until I lose track of how long we've been walking, only the press of the earth above me and the hatred of the whisper within me are real.

Lost in my efforts to muffle the whisper, I don't hear the call to halt and I bump up against Jackson. Mumbling my apologies, I go where she points me, a small workroom humming with machine sounds and stuffy with warmth. Everyone presses inside and shuffles around, some readying for sleep, but two unfortunates keeping eyes pried open on guard duty. I lie down against the wall facing the door and almost immediately I'm lost to a troubled sleep.

My heart pounding from a dream I don't remember, I gasp awake in the tiny, humid room. I grind my wrists against the cuffs, trying to still the clamoring din in my head. On top of the claustrophobic pressure of being buried under the city, on top of the chant of the whisper's rage, on top of the burning guilt and frantic fear I'll hurt someone else, on top of the miserable helplessness of being forced yet again into someone else's plan, hums a new hissing prod. I bite my lip until I taste blood, tear my skin with the bite of the manacles, squeeze my eyes tight trying to block it out, but I can't escape it. Like gravity, I feel myself driven by a force beyond my control. From deep in my chest, our precarious position calls a response I'm powerless to resist. Something buried inside me insists that I protect Katniss Everdeen.

I don't know how this mission started out, if she knew she was being set up by Coin, if she was ever supposed to make it beyond that booby-trapped street. But she has assigned herself to a new mission. She isn't communicating with Thirteen, and the squad is following her without question. She is moving us steadily into the heart of the Capitol, and it is clear she has one objective in mind. She's after Snow.

I came here to thwart Coin. I'm convinced whatever she has in mind, it won't be any better than having Snow in control. If her plan needed Katniss dead, I was going to keep her alive. But these last few hours in the tunnels, hunted and hiding, our lives depending on us depending on each other, something has awakened in me. A dark familiarity of purpose, the demand of a promise I don't remember making. Pressing my forehead against the cold concrete floor, I try to follow it to its source, but the flaring demon always screams across my vision and I lose the trail.

Trying it from another angle, I ignore the memories of Katniss. I think instead of my father, I search for moments the Capitol couldn't have poisoned. Under the stars in the Victors' Village, staring up at the wide, brilliant expanse of sky after the announcement of the Quarter Quell. Going back to my warm kitchen and finding my father there with Jasper and Lila, knowing they understood completely that I had to go back to the arena, even if it wasn't my name that was reaped.

I think of my studio in the back of my house, the endless hours painting and sketching and drawing, trying to exorcise the painful ache of longing, to reconcile the empty heartbreak, finally coming to peace with the idea that all I want is happiness for her.

With a heavy sigh, I lightly thump my head on the solid floor. The whisper screams its fury against the gentler call, but the softer tone remains, refusing to retreat this time. I'm certain I will die down here, buried in the stinking bowels of the glittering city. But before I do, I will do everything I can to protect Katniss Everdeen.

The object of my thoughts slides down the wall to sit next to where my head rests. She and Pollux click around on the Holo for a while, until it becomes too much and she hands it over to him, settling wearily against the dank wall and sighing.

"Have you eaten?"

I'm surprised by the tenderness in her voice. Not trusting myself to speak, I shake my head. I hear her rustle around and the pop and swish of a can opening. She slides the chicken soup toward me, holding onto the lid. I smile wryly, but haul myself up and tilt the can at my lips, the greasy, cold mess sliding down my throat. I close my eyes and swallow, trying not to think about the slippery mass and just get it down.

"Peeta," she asks curiously. "When you asked about what happened to Darius and Lavinia, and Boggs told you it was real, you said you thought so. Because there was nothing shiny about it. What did you mean?"

I'm caught off-guard by her tone. It sounds completely different than any I've heard from her since I was brought back from the Capitol. She doesn't sound angry or defiant, isn't forcing gentleness. She just sounds like someone talking about something of interest. It twangs backward through my mind, through my heart, and I stutter uncertainly for a moment, unable to focus around the vertigo.

"Oh. I don't know exactly how to explain it," I stammer. "In the beginning, everything was just complete confusion. Now I can sort certain things out. I think there's a pattern emerging." I realize I'm speaking to her just like I would to Cilla or Lef and Dils. Unguarded, not trying to analyze and second guess every glance, every inflection. Just talking to her. "The memories they altered with the tracker jacker venom have this strange quality about them. Like they're too intense or the images aren't stable." She is watching me intently, trying to understand. "You remember what it was like when we were stung?" She nods, but my heart skips oddly.

"Trees shattered. There were giant colored butterflies. I fell in a pit of orange bubbles. Shiny orange bubbles," she recalls.

She is beginning to see what I mean, but I'm caught on how the word "we" tugged through my chest. How her recollection brings a swelling of the urge to protect her. I faced off against Cato, crazed by the venom, to keep her safe. I want to keep her safe now.

I pull my attention from the warm throb in my chest, force my lungs to work against the pressing fizz in my blood. I take a chug of the soup to buy some time and steady my voice. "Right," I nod. "But nothing about Darius or Lavinia was like that. I don't think they'd given me any venom yet." Amazingly, I can speak of it without being overwhelmed by visions.

"Well, that's good, isn't?" she asks. "If you can separate the two, then you can figure out what's true." She looks at me hopefully.

"Yes. And if I could grow wings I could fly," I reply, thinking of the hours I've spent trying to sift through my own brain. The words trigger a blazing, screeching, demon image of her, fiery arrows lighting my home to burn everyone I love. "Only people can't grow wings. Real or not real?" I ask, looking at her against the image that sprouts talons and fangs.

"Real," she says. "But people don't need wings to survive."

I watch her for a moment, the image twinkling and falling apart at the edges when I hold it in my mind. In the dark cave of a workroom, I see her fighting to keep me alive. To keep all of us alive. "Mockingjays do," I reply softly, emptying the last of the soup and handing back the can.

"There's still time," her voice is disarmingly gentle. "You should sleep."

I lie back down, images of Twelve swirling through my head. Every walkway, every shop, every home, all are colored by their relationship to her. The route she walks home from school, the merchants where she trades her hunts, the houses where she has friends. My memories belong to her.

A familiar lump in my chest, an echo of a realization I had before. She is not indifferent. She doesn't love me, but she is not indifferent. And a returning call. I am not indifferent. I no longer love her, but I am not indifferent.

In the dimly lit room, buzzing with machinery and heavy with the deep breathing of our sleeping allies, I feel her cool fingers brush my hair back from my forehead. The whisper screeches insanely and my muscles lock against the urge to strike at her. But the gentle hum is low in the background and I cling to it, fighting my way back, using it as a guide until I can unclench my jaw and my thoughts are my own again. Her gentle touch pulls another memory forward, our need for each other in other dark caves, on other dangerous nights. Our promise to each other to keep the other safe.

"You're still trying to protect me." It's not a question, it's a truth. "Real or not real?"

"Real," she answers, though I already knew. "Because that's what you and I do. Protect each other." With her soft hand on my head, with her watching over me, my eyes droop closed and I sleep.

The jungle steams and clicks around me. I move silently through the dim light, careful not to bring attention with an unexpected sound, or a tell-tale hiss. My brothers are all around me, but they don't know what I know. I know what to look for. I know what to avoid. I follow my instincts until I pick up a scent. There.

Sliding through the trees, I move closer. Following the scent that is hers, I know how to find her. The others can't feel her like I can. I can feel her under my skin, in my blood. I can find her. Low to the ground, out of sight, I glide toward her.

As I get closer, the buzz in my blood increases its pitch until I can feel it vibrate through my bones. I'm close, I can feel her. Like smoke, I drift silently behind a tree and peer around the trunk. It's as though she glows golden in the dark. A beacon, a call, a target. She sleeps, oblivious and helpless. Head pillowed on a hand on the spongy jungle floor, cheeks flushed with sleep.

My lips curl back from my teeth in a hungry grin. My blood screams for hers, my hands itch for her soft, weak skin. I can taste her sweat and her fear and her screams. A glow of pride that I'm the first to find her. I'll be rewarded. I'll be praised.

But what's this? Her light dims, her scent falters. Like a dark shield coming down around her, she fades from my sight. I stand straighter, searching for the intruder. There. I see it. Golden curls gleam in the moonlight, blue flame blazes in defiance from the eyes. I shudder away, I can't look at it. Hiding myself behind the tree, I pant, waiting until the sick clamminess recedes. He's watching over her.

No matter. I can still have her. I can still take her. I call to her.

"Katnisssssss…."


	28. Chapter 28

"Katniss!" I leap up, eyes searching frantically, but mind pulled by the vision of the dark, of the hunt, of the hunger. "Katniss! Get out of here!"

"Why?" she asks, hesitating. Why is she always so stubborn? "What's making that sound?"

"I don't know," I cry, trying to shake my head clear of the images crowding my brain. "Only that it has to kill you." I have never been so certain of anything before. "Run! Get out! Go!"

She pauses, looking around, making plans. My heart crashes against my ribs and I grind my hands into fists, the scream howling with the amplified concussion of a hundred more voices. My skull throbs and my vision jitters. The inconceivable volume of the hatred in my head blocks out every other thought. Every thought but one, why is she not running?

Finally, we're ready to move. Out of the workroom, the call is clearer than ever. I can feel their ravenous frenzy closing from behind us. As we sprint down a ragged train track I hear the screams. The others are staring around frantically, trying to place the sound, but its indistinct, muffled familiarity turns my knees to water.

"Avoxes," I say shakily. "That's what Darius sounded like when they tortured him."

This leads to more discussion, more wasted time as the threat closes in on us, as my blood churns and curdles with the pull of the demand, as the whisper shrieks its triumph, so close to hand. I close my eyes tightly against the hissing, but the quality changes. The echoes are bouncing differently.

"Listen," I whisper, eyes wide with the frantic need to see into the dark. The sound is coming from behind us, but now also below us. And closer. We run.

At a rusty, metal set of steps, we halt. Katniss and Pollux scan the Holo desperately for a way out. My hands twitch at my sides, my neck stretches my jaw forward while the siren call from down the steps croons for me to join them. Urging, pleading, demanding, my skeleton feels like iron drawn to a magnet. I grind my wrists against the cuffs.

A toxically sweet scent drifts up from the stairs, twining its way through my brain, into my nerves, trying to take control of my muscles. _join us kill her join us kill her join us kill her_

Katniss veers away, hand clamped over her nose, and we pile after her out onto the wide, smooth streets of the Transfer. _tear bite claw rip kill kill_ Like an empty replica of the city above, with blank white walls instead of ornate buildings, the route for the utility traffic is clear and tempting in its hollow illusion of safety. _bite claw gouge tear shred_ Katniss launches an arrow into a gutter and the crashing bloom of fire sends the bodies of giant rats flying to lay in smoking piles around the street. _fire burn scorch sear kill_ We run for the next intersection.

Messalla, ahead and to the side, takes one long stride just barely out of step of the others. A burst of shining golden light flares upward from the floor, transfixing him in its glow. His skin begins to bubble and flow, even as Gale fires at the base of the beam, trying to release him. The chaotic chitter behind us quiets to a more focused singularity as they get closer, honing in, gaining ground.

"Can't help him!" I throw myself against Gale, pressing him forward, my shuddering hands reaching behind to gather Finnick and Jackson as well. Sluggishly, they begin to move away from the horror of the death of their friend. "Can't!" I repeat, pushing Katniss into motion as well. _kill cleave rip shred claw_

As we finally pick up speed, we're nearing the next intersection and the screaming fury behind us increases as we gain some distance. _stop her grab kill claw bite_ The rise of the whisper's fury, the pull in my blood to join the horde behind us, the sickening vision of Messalla left behind, all crash through my head as we run. Katniss skids to a stop, the rest of us piling up behind as the Transfer fills with the crack of gunfire, a squad of Peacekeepers sprinting toward us. The walls echo with the scream of bullets and arrows as 451 holds its ground against the far out-skilled soldiers, but my hands are pressed against my ears as the ecstatic howl of the whisper shrieks its victory.

From the side tunnel pours a horror of snapping, squealing madness. White-skinned, standing tall like a human, but with long, sharp muzzles and lizard-like tails, the mutts fall on the downed Peacekeepers. I stare in frozen, shocked fascination as they snap and bite their way through the squad, iron strong jaws clamping down and ripping off heads with the swift precision of a business task, but the gluttonous, bloody maws of an animal. _join us join us join us_

"This way!" Katniss howls over the screams of men and beasts, squeezing around a corner that was marked on the Holo with an ominous, blinking light. When we're all past, she turns and fires into the street where enormous metal gears erupt from the tile with a screeching clamor and begin grinding the intersection into rubble. The squad turns to run, but one of the long, lithe bodies flings itself over the churning teeth, landing with a hiss on our side. A spray of bullets rains over it and it flops back onto the cold street. Jackson and Leeg scream at us to go, turning to fire into the swarm, covering our retreat.

A few more yards down the Transfer and Pollux ducks through a metal doorway marked with giant signs warning against entry. He ushers us along a short walkway and gestures to a tight, narrow pipe opening. _crush gasp choke deep_ I shudder, unable to force my feet toward the black emptiness of the entrance. The hiss grows stronger behind us. _we're coming wait we're coming_ With a choking groan, I heave myself into the pipe.

A short, nightmarish crawl and we open out onto another hell. A narrow, sludgy concrete ledge runs along the wall of the sewer. Toxic odors burn my throat and eyes while malevolent bubbles pop, sending sprays of burning poison flying toward us. Fire spits and flares randomly in the slowly drifting river of waste, both human and chemical.

Pressed against the clammy curve of the wall, we inch our way to a bridge spanning the lethal mess with spidery thin metal webbing. _we're coming we're coming we're coming_ The hiss is in my head, in my blood, in my skin. On the far side of the bridge, we pull ourselves close to the wall and Katniss scans our diminished group with frantic eyes, noticing for the first time not all of us are accounted for.

"Wait!" she cries. "Where are Jackson and Leeg 1?"

Homes is holding her back, keeping her from making their sacrifice meaningless as she tries to re-cross the bridge. It's as though everything is being seen in two perspectives for me. I can see across the bridge from our vantage point, but in flashes and flares, I also see us from the other side, huddled and terrified, trembling and sending out stinking waves of panic and weakness and sweaty fear. It makes me want to throw my head back and scream to the skies with voracious hunger.

"Stand back!" Gale's voice rings out, pulling me from the edge of submission. He launches an arrow across the simmering murk and with a squealing cry of shredding metal the bridge shrieks away from the foundation, sinking into the bubbling, swirling mess just as a torrent of mutts, pouring endlessly from the pipe, reaches it.

Their tails lash in rage and thwarted fury and they scream Katniss' name, hurling themselves into the flaming tide in their mad desire to reach her. I feel her name bubble to my own lips and I crouch against the wall, hands pressed over my ears and teeth clamped together to keep the hiss from escaping my tongue.

My eyes fly from the shrieking monsters to their trembling prey. She stands frozen at the foot of the ladder Pollux has begun to scale, Gale and Finnick firing steely-eyed into the horde and Cressida, weapon wavering in her inexperienced hands, but spraying the other side with gunfire. Finnick meets my eyes and I'm transfixed by the fierce determination I find there. I see the finality, the ending he meets with full knowledge of what he loses. I was wrong. He knows how quickly it can all be taken away.

Not in vain. I owe him too much. My legs are shaking so they barely support my weight, but the prosthetic works as a lever and pushing myself to standing, I grab Katniss around the waist, hauling her away from the edge where a long clawed hand has just stretched from the fiery tide to clutch for her. I slam her against the ladder, fastening her numb hands around the rungs and shoving her upward. Slowly, she starts to climb. Pressing her onward from below, I reach behind and snag at Cressida, dragging her behind us. She fumbles at the rungs, but then climbs steadily. Pollux has made it to the top and moves over to a second ladder. Pushing Katniss along, we follow, the scream in my head ringing against my skull so that I can barely grasp the metal. My grip is beginning to slide when Katniss' hand locks around my wrist, hauling me onto the platform. We both help Cressida over the side and I collapse, shaking and pressing against the wall, hands gripping my hair as the shrieking chaos in my head threatens to devour me.

Finnick. I can feel them closing in on him. Feel their triumphant hunger as he boosts a protesting Gale up the ladder and turns to face them alone. I can see, as if through their eyes, the steady sea-green stare and bronze curls. He sweeps an arc of gunfire back and forth three times before turning to follow Gale up the ladder. But there are too many, and they are too fast. My head throbs with the choir of their screams as they climb over each other to reach him. The victorious squeal when one tears into his leg, the coppery smell of his blood pitching them to howling frenzy. I can see the blood pumping in the vein under his soft, weak skin as the neck is pulled back for the death bite. And I can see the triumph in his eyes as the Holo drops down from above, just before it all goes black.

I'm lost, swimming in a dark ocean surrounded by towering swells and a devil current below that pulls at me, drawing me under the cold, clutching emptiness. In the raging chaos of my mind, all I can hear is the whisper, the call, the demand, the fury. I am not myself. I am them. I have no will, no choice.

"Peeta?" The name drags at me, a slow, syrupy call through layers of high pitched screams. "Peeta?" I can't answer, but I have to warn them. I have to get away. I only have moments before I cannot answer for my actions.

"Leave me." It takes all my strength to force the words from lips. "I can't hang on."

"Yes. You can!" She doesn't know. She doesn't see it. Doesn't hear it. She isn't the one who will have to live with what happens when, most cruelly of all, I'm returned to awareness to face what I've done to others.

"I'm losing it." I don't have the words to explain it, I can't debate or compel. I can barely form sentences. "I'll go mad." I shudder away from the reality as the nauseous lump in my belly burns and accuses. "Like them," I choke.

My eyes won't focus, I don't know if they're even open, I can't tell. All I can see is the waves crashing over my head, pulling me under. My ears ring with the scream of the whisper and my muscles are locked in an iron struggle for control. I am a prisoner within my own body, my own mind.

But then I feel the warmth of her breath, smell her skin, and then, taste her lips against my own. My mind swings and pinwheels and flares, the shriek of the whisper demanding I grab her, bite her, tear her. But deep in my chest, low in my belly, another demand awakes. A hunger, a longing, a desire so familiar and so sweet it will not be denied. It throbs and hums in my skin, rising up through my blood and coursing through my breath. My body convulses, shaking and shivering as the warmth floods through me, battling the freezing, stony fury for control.

She leans her forehead against mine, twining her strong, steady fingers through my tremblingly weak ones. "Don't let him take you from me," she commands.

The whisper's howling scream and the flaring visions rage across my mind. I cling to her voice, follow it through the darkness, use it as a shield against the nightmare images real and imagined. "No. I don't want to…" I feel myself slipping under. It's not enough. I'm not enough. What I want is of no consequence, and never has been.

Her hands grip mine tighter, fingers digging in and holding me with her claim. "Stay with me."

And my heart answers her. Stretching back across time and change, through manipulation and lies, back to the only me that was ever real. The promise I made that etched its truth between us, that tied me to her forever and for all time.

"Always."


	29. Chapter 29

The two calls wage war in my head. The shrieking demand for her destruction, and the gentle hum that I protect her, with my own life if necessary. Everything else fades to a blur around me as my mind battles not to shatter and split into jagged shards from the competing mandates.

In a numb daze, I move with the squad out into the street. Strange clothes hang on me, my face is caked in makeup and swathed in a scarf. All around us the citizens of the Capitol surge through the streets, we're swallowed in the current of confused, frightened humanity as it bears us along. My feet follow, my mind reels.

Stumbling up to a dingy shop window, I stare blankly at the stiffly posed mannequins inside, clothed in improbably furry underwear. I begin to shudder as images of the table viewed from behind the glass swoop into my memory. I can feel the restraints tying me to the chair, feel the sucking horror start in my belly when the day's victim was revealed to me. The whisper rises.

Behind the glass the small girl meets my eye. No, she's reflected, behind me. Her dark hair in looping braids, she clutches the hand of the tall man who hurries her along and they vanish from sight. The hum swells. Screaming defiantly, the whisper rages, but the hum is an undeniable tide. Like spring sunlight coaxes buds from crooked twigs, the hum calls, it wakes me from my stony confusion and the whisper retreats. It isn't gone, it's never gone, but it loses ground. Sounds begin to penetrate the muffled ringing in my ears, and I realize we've traveled into the heart of the city. I look up, taking in my surroundings for the first time, my eyes searching automatically for Katniss. I try not to think about the tug in my chest when I see her.

We're in a dirty side street in front of a shop and Cressida is pushing firmly through the door, the squad following uncertainly after her. The interior of the shop smells musty, but warm, reminding me of the attic of Carney's house. The hum throbs at the memory of hours spent there, sunlight dappling our faces through the tiny window and flying dust motes. A memory of myself when I was whole, when I was me. I watch Katniss' back, straight and strong, head tilted up. Gale stands next to her, silent but solid, and the hum buzzes, pleased.

My gaze drifts to the person they're talking to and I flinch back. But it isn't a vision, she's had surgery. What must have been repeated surgeries until she's more feline than human in her appearance. I hear Cressida call her Tigris and the name rings with Portia's voice. She'd mentioned a stylist, brilliant, but haunted by the deaths of her tributes, who had lost herself in her grief until she had tried to leave humanity behind her altogether. I watch her as she negotiates with Katniss and Cressida. Another broken soul Snow can answer for.

She leads us to a hidden panel that reveals a narrow, steep stairway leading down into the blackness. Of course. I shudder as I peer down the stone steps into the black pit calling to swallow us up in its clutching darkness. A short hesitation, and Katniss starts down. My teeth clenching over a groan, the hum urges me to follow. The cold, stone cellar is dank and dimly lit, with piles of ratty furs and ominous looking bundles scattered over the floor. The panel slides back into place, sealing us here, and I stand at the base of the steps, tearing my skin against the manacles and shaking violently while the whisper ascends.

Pollux comes to stand next to me, one gentle hand on my shoulder. He shares my dread of being buried deep in the earth. The dim light shadows his face, but it can't hide the grief etched there and my chest eases a bit of its tightness at this kindness. My lungs are able to pull air a little more easily and I can unclench my fists, the knuckles gleaming white and knobby under my skin. I nod shakily and reach to squeeze his arm. Nodding back, he stands with me as we watch Katniss tend to the wound gaping on Gale's neck.

She works with quick efficiency, hands swift and sure and the hum rises gently again. My hand drifts to my thigh, the memory of the gash that would have finished me in the first arena if not for her. If not for her skilled hands, if not for her fierce determination that she not let me die. If not for her. The whisper shrieks against my skull, but the hum smooths its edges and blunts its force. I can see the cave before me, dark and stone, just like now. Katniss fighting to heal, just like now. She could have, should have, left me there and taken to the trees. She had food, weapons, strength. But instead she stayed with me. Protecting me, while putting herself directly in danger. Holed up with an invalid, offering herself to crazed Cato on a platter should he happen to find us. I stare blindly at her quick, bloody hands.

With a start, I realize she's standing right in front of me. Pollux moves to help Cressida fashion furry nests from the pelts and Katniss guides me under the single light bulb, clucking fretfully over my wrists. I can't quite line up my thoughts, her hands on my skin and the buzz of the whisper battling the hum making it hard for me to concentrate. She's lecturing about keeping the wounds clean.

"I know what blood poisoning is, Katniss," I tell her, my lips forming the words without me really knowing they're doing it. "Even if my mother isn't a healer." The cave is all around me, and with it, the heady swirl of joy and dread that she was there with me. The echo of the guilt and desire battling in my head, knowing what I should do, aching for what I want to do.

"You said that same thing to me in the first Hunger Games. Real or not real?" Her voice is low, but the tremor can't be hidden.

"Real," I tell her, and her hands shake slightly as they cradle my damaged wrists. She won't meet my eyes. "And you risked your life getting the medicine that saved me?" I can still only barely believe it.

"Real," she confirms. "You were the reason I was alive to do it."

"Was I?" This startles me, shakes my tentative grasp on control. I'd forgotten. My ruined mind, my shattered body, my crushed will, they've made me forget. She kept me safe. But I kept her safe, too. In the Games, and after. All those nights, all the times she needed the protection of my arms around her to face the demons in the dark. The whisper screams that she took from me, uncaring that it broke my heart. But the hum murmurs of my elation that I could help, the contentment of her looking to me for comfort. Knowing she needed me. She needed me. She needs me. The whisper's howl shatters my skull.

"I'm so tired, Katniss."

"Go to sleep," she urges. She helps shackle the cuffs to one of the supports on the stairs, I'm terrified the call of the mutts will overpower me in my sleep, and sits back wearily, head tipped back against the cold wall behind her. I watch her as my eyelids droop closed, watch her as the darkness pulls me softly under, watch her as I drift to sleep, watch her watching over me.

When I wake she's awake, too. Cressida brings me a drink of water from the rattling spigot at the back of the cellar, holding it to my lips.

Katniss is agitated and pacing the small space. It's more than our dangerous situation, I'm sure of it. She has the expression I'm so familiar with. She's feeling responsible for other people, blaming herself for things completely out of her control. When everyone is awake, she blurts her story, stalking back and forth and wringing her hands. I'm surprised by what she says, but not by how the others take it. She confesses that when Boggs was killed, she lied, telling the others that Coin had assigned her a secret mission to kill Snow so they wouldn't drag her back to Thirteen. She feels wretched that the soldiers followed her, to their deaths.

Gale and Cressida try to reason with her, Pollux nodding his agreement, but they don't understand her. They try to tell her it's not her fault. They try to tell her she's wrong to feel guilty. But they don't know the weight she carries. They don't know she will never hold herself blameless for what she thinks is failing to protect someone.

She turns to me, her gray eyes shining with hurt and shame. "What do you think, Peeta?"

She doesn't know either. She doesn't know how she radiates resolve, how she burns with purpose. How other people want to be warmed by that flame, want to be part of her heat. It's always been this way, I remember suddenly.

"I think…you still have no idea. The effect you can have." The familiar words are oddly sweet on my tongue, calling a vision of her striding through the town square, swinging a bulging game bag and intent on the best trade she can get to keep her family strong. I pull myself up straight and hold her gaze steadily. "None of the people we lost were idiots," I tell her firmly. "They knew what they were doing. They followed you because they believed you really could kill Snow."

I watch her digest this, see her accept its truth. I see the pain drain from her eyes as she nods slowly, and I see her understand what I'm saying. She owes them this. They gave their lives for this promise she made them, and she can't give up now. She pulls her map from her pocket and spreads it out on the floor, Gale and Cressida coming to hunch over it with her, planning and preparing.

I lean back against the stair support, the whisper buzzing hatefully in the back of my mind. But the hum is a soft warmth on my skin, a fizz of hope in my blood. The long forgotten tug of the connection stretching between us pulls gently through my chest, dizzying me with how true it feels. I force my attention to the plans they are making, focus on the map, determinedly ignore the zip of giddiness that swings my vision constantly back to the dark braid bent over it.

"What we need is to get him out in the open," Gale is saying. "Then one of us could pick him off."

"Does he ever appear in public anymore?" I ask, thinking of the rebel squadrons drilling in the practice grounds in Thirteen. Then my heart drops as Katniss makes her suggestion.

"I bet he'd come out for me," she says. The rest of her words are lost in a foggy haze as I shake my head emphatically.

"No," I say adamantly. "There are too many alternative endings to that plan. Snow might decide to keep you and torture information out of you." I swallow the spiky knot that chokes my throat at the thought. "Or have you executed publicly without being present. Or kill you inside the mansion and display your body out front." Each scenario gouges at my chest and my hands begin to shake.

Gale won't agree right away either and I'm relieved when Tigris ends the conversation by calling us up to eat. While we pick at the meager offering we watch the Capitol news warning citizens that we are roaming the streets, dangerous and bloodthirsty. Katniss asks if the rebels have made a statement, and Tigris tells her they haven't.

"I doubt Coin knows what do to with me now that I'm still alive," she says, bemused.

"No one knows what to do with you, girlie," Tigris chortles, with more truth than she knows. My gaze flashes to Gale and he's staring back at me, his gray Seam eyes holding all the twisted uncertainty I feel boiling in my own belly.

Back in the cellar, the conversation is a circuitous tangle about how to continue the mission. It's a hopeless mess and the best that comes from it is the agreement that we can't travel in a group, and Katniss agrees not to present herself as bait before trying another plan first. Though the simmering flame in her eyes convinces me she is only agreeing to end the conversation. I'll need to keep a close eye on her.

Everyone settles in to sleep and eventually the only sound in the cold cellar is the deep breathing and muttered fears of troubled dreams. I lie awake, bundled in the furs, eyes staring blindly into the dimness. The whisper hisses and moans its hateful monologue and the insistent hum thrums against it, driving me into twitchy anxiety. But that isn't why I'm unable to sleep. I'm kept awake by the pull in my chest. The tug at a tether that doesn't exist, stretching across the dark room, so even with my back turned I'm aware of precisely where in the room she lies, wrapped in a nest of pelts. I'm aware of an empty feeling in my arms, a wrongness that she is separate from me, rather than held tightly against my heart in the dark. I stare blankly at the sputtering bulb dangling from the ceiling. I'm an idiot.

From the pile of furs covering Gale a choking moan is cut off and he jerks upright with a gasping curse. His eyes fly to Katniss and he stares at her with his fists clenched in knots until his breathing slows, convinced she hasn't crept away in the night. A burn of shame boils in my throat. I have no right to even think these things. Gale is strong and whole and, most importantly, not a danger to her. If I really care that she is safe, that she is happy, I have no right to even be thinking these things.

He heaves himself onto his side and lies back down, his eyes on the pile covering her. I can see the flicker of light caught in his gray gaze as he stares at her, one hand stretched toward her on the stony floor. My breath catches at the depth of longing in his unguarded expression.

"Would you mind bringing me a drink?" I ask softly. He starts guiltily and turns his head quickly to me. I try to look sleepy, like I'm just waking, but I don't know if he's buying it.

He rises and picks his way over to the faucet, letting the water run a minute until it's clear and cold, coming back with it held carefully so it doesn't spill. He stands over me silently for a moment, then crouches and holds the cup to my lips. I swallow the drink gratefully, and he still says nothing, moving back to his spot and sitting down facing me, eyes guarded.

"Thanks for the water," I say quietly, suddenly finding it darkly funny that we are locked in this silent conversation, both of us knowing what the other is thinking, but unwilling to put words to it.

"No problem," he shrugs. "I wake up ten times a night anyway."

"To make sure Katniss is still here?" I ask pointedly.

He shrugs again, but he meets my eyes. "Something like that."

I wait for him to say what he's thinking. But Gale would never voice such uncertainty. He'll let it eat him from inside first.

"That was funny, what Tigris said," I offer. "About no one knowing what to do with her."

"Well, _we_ never have," he grunts, and we both laugh at the painful truth of it.

He doesn't deserve this. "She loves you, you know," I tell him softly, surprising myself with the burning ache the words stir in my chest. "She as good as told me after they whipped you."

"Don't believe it," he answers wretchedly. He looks at me steadily and I see the ache echoed in his own eyes. "The way she kissed you in the Quarter Quell...well, she never kissed me like that."

 _I do. I need you._ I push the memory aside. I have no right.

I shake my head, forcing my voice not to waver over the fierce desire that pulls at my heart. "It was just part of the show."

"No, you won her over." He doesn't sound angry, he sounds resigned. I have no right. "Gave up everything for her," he continues. "Maybe that's the only way to convince her you love her." He sounds despairing, as if arriving at the answer to a riddle much too late. "I should have volunteered to take your place in the first Games. Protected her then."

He loves her. With all his honest heart. But he doesn't understand her. If he is going to keep her safe after all this, he'll need to understand how she sees the world. "You couldn't," I tell him. "She'd never have forgiven you. You had to take care of her family. They matter more to her than her life."

He nods his agreement, but it ends in a shrug. "Well, it won't be an issue much longer. I think it's unlikely all three of us will be alive at the end of the war. And if we are, I guess it's Katniss' problem. Who to choose." He yawns hugely. "We should get some sleep."

As he settles himself in to wait out the night, I'm aware of the stillness from the pile of furs where Katniss is buried. She's awake.

"Yeah." I slide lower down the post, my hands stretched overhead because I can't risk not being tied up in my sleep. Because at any moment I can become a raging lunatic bent on destroying everyone near me. "I wonder how she'll make up her mind," I snort ironically.

"Oh, that I do know," he responds. His voice carries a lilt of sadness that is striking in its misery. "Katniss will pick whoever she thinks she can't survive without."

I lie staring into the darkness as his breathing grows slow and regular. Eventually, Katniss joins him, her deep, steady breaths filling the space between us. I stare into the darkness under the stairwell, my arms aching to wrap around her, to close the distance between us. The whisper taunts and cackles at this ridiculous train of thought. But the gentle hum responds with a glowing buzz. _I do, I need you. You gave up everything for her. I do. I need you._


	30. Chapter 30

Gale and I are the first ones to wake and he fumbles gingerly through Katniss' pocket for the key to unchain my hands from the strut, careful not to wake the others. A jerk of his head and I follow him upstairs into the dim, dusty shop. Tigris is nowhere in sight, but a small selection of plates is laid out for breakfast. Gale pops a fig cookie into his mouth and flicks on the television. The Capitol is reporting blearily about how well the battle is going, how rebels are being driven back and victory is within reach. Gale snorts derisively and shakes his head.

Cressida appears at the steps, grinding her fists into her eyes and blinking sleepily. She flops onto a stool and watches the report glumly. I hand her a cookie and she smiles half-heartedly.

"Are you crazy all the time, or just in spurts?" she asks conversationally.

"I'm not sure," I answer honestly. "I can control it most of the time, but it's still there. What does that mean?"

"It means you're crazy," Gale mumbles around a mouthful of liver mush. I sniff at a crackerful of the stuff and wrinkle my nose, pushing it away in disgust.

"Probably," I agree, dusting my fingers off and watching distastefully as he appropriates the discarded cracker. "But I'm not the one eating that revolting glob of organ."

He grins through the mush and pulls my portion over to himself, trading for his cookies. Cressida watches with sharp eyes, but her scrutiny doesn't bother me. I don't think she has a hidden agenda, she's here to tell the story. A buzz in my chest and Katniss appears at the top of the steps with Pollux right behind her. I concentrate on the plate in front of me, and she comes to sit with us, watching the screen with a grim frown.

Gale slides a lump of liver toward her and she smiles tightly. The screen fritzes and switches to a rebel break-in. They show progress as the rebels push three roads into the center of the city, using abandoned cars to trigger pods as they advance. Gale worries the trick won't work once the Capitol realizes what's happening, and, like he conjured it, the next shot shows a squad blown apart when the Capitol lures them into a falsely deactivated zone.

"I bet it's killing Plutarch not to be in the control room on this one," I grit angrily. I don't know how much of his loyalty lies with the rebel cause, and how much is just preening.

The reporter is back on the screen, looking far less confident and warning citizens which new areas need to be evacuated. Only moments later the noise on the street increases and Katniss moves to peer cautiously through the blinds. A wide river of people is flowing through the previously quiet avenue, leaving the evacuation areas in a rush of panic and unpreparedness to seek shelter in the city center. Refugees carry anything from hastily snatched family treasures to yapping dogs. Hardly any of them are dressed for the chilly weather and many of them are children.

I turn away, sickened by the sight. Gale stares in stony faced silence and I can practically feel the anger radiating from him. He will never forgive himself for the families in Twelve he was unable to save. I squeeze his shoulder as I walk back to the counter and he drops his head before following me back.

Tigris volunteers to go out and try and gather information for us. She locks us back in the cellar and we hear her footsteps shuffle across the floor above us and the sad tinkle of the bells over the door as she leaves. Cressida and Gale are wound to hair-trigger tension and glower darkly as Katniss paces endlessly in the narrow, close cellar. Hours creep by, everyone getting more and more anxious as Tigris' absence stretches endlessly on.

Just as I think Gale will actually chew his own arm off, the bell tinkles again and we hear a muffled shuffling around upstairs. When she pulls back the panel, the heady scent of hot, roasting food wafts down the steps and my stomach cramps with anticipation. We pile up the stairs and gratefully wolf down the crispy potatoes and juicy ham in quick, eager forkfuls. Tigris watches us proudly, nibbling at a chunk of raw ham. She grins modestly as she tells us how she was able to trade her warm goods for the provisions the refugees were traveling with.

Apparently the city is crammed with displaced citizens and those still comfortably ensconced aren't willingly flinging open doors to them. A sour looking Peacekeeper, a twin to Thread in his bitter, harsh manner, barks from the television about taking in the displaced. He has a very official looking table laying out the "guests" per square foot each citizen is expected to house, shows a ridiculous shot of the mansion staff cheerfully readying spare quarters in the President's home, and advises even shopkeepers need to stand ready to lend floor space if so ordered.

My stomach rolls unpleasantly. "Tigris, that could be you," I warn, looking around at the tiny, crowded shop. We need to get out right now. If Tigris is caught sheltering us, she'll face a horrific punishment. The whisper pitches higher as I feel anxiety's cold grip on my heart.

The Peacekeeper's voice takes on a stern, parental tone. He reports about a young man beaten to death by an angry mob who thought he was me, a photo in the top corner of the screen showing a smug, painfully young citizen shaking hands with a professorial looking older woman. His hair is blond, but other than that he looks as much like me as Katniss does. I feel sick and turn away from the screen, adding the death to the long list that can be laid at my door.

Katniss, suddenly helpful, volunteers to wash dishes, Gale quickly offering to help as well. As they gather plates and move to the back in the tiny kitchen, I watch them together. They move comfortably as a pair, familiar and in tune. He will take good care of her, she will be loved and safe. A strange mix of contentment and longing buzzes in my blood and I shake my head, turning away.

Pollux, silent as ever, is staring at me sympathetically. Cressida, eyes narrowed, watches me with her head slightly cocked to the side.

"You're not crazy all the time," she says softly.

I feel the crimson wave of heat rush up my face and I grit my teeth against a stammering denial that springs to my lips. My hands tremble a little, but otherwise I can look her in the eye.

"No," I shake my head. "That _is_ the crazy part." I hold her gaze, and I see kindness there. "Please don't say anything," I ask quietly. "I have no right to be thinking things like that. It would only make people unhappy to talk about it."

Cressida watches me silently, neither conceding nor arguing, but Pollux shakes his head adamantly. His bright eyes blaze with a fervent purpose that surpasses a need to speak it. He gestures sharply from his mouth, his intent clear.

I shake my head again. "I can't say anything," I repeat firmly. "Please, Pollux."

Pollux still looks determined, but Cressida puts a gentle hand on his arm. "It's not our business, Pol," she says, but she turns to me thoughtfully. "He thinks you need to remember your brother. That you owe him a life well lived."

The shot lands squarely and I'm left speechless, saved only by the return of Gale and Katniss from the kitchen. They have a plan ready. Working on the assumption that Snow will have to let refugees inside the mansion, at least a few for show, they are determined to be among them. Cressida and Pollux will travel with them, as guides, but they worry that all five of us, in a group, will draw too much attention. Katniss, her eyes darting around the room, looking anywhere but at me, suggests I stay behind. I suddenly remember what a terrible liar she is.

Nodding, I agree. It's certainly true we draw more attention together. Especially the two of us. Splitting up makes perfect sense. She looks almost comically relieved, like a small child was tricked into not throwing a tantrum with the suggestion of a game of "Who can be quietest?"

"I'll go toward line B," I say casually. Her face freezes so tragically that I almost laugh out loud.

"To do what?" Cressida asks shrewdly.

"I'm not sure exactly." I, on the other hand, am an excellent liar. "The one thing that I might still be useful at is causing a diversion. You saw what happened to that man who looked like me."

"What if you…lose control?" Katniss worries.

"You mean…go mutt?" I retort dryly. "Well, if I feel that coming on, I'll try to get back here." She looks hesitantly relieved, but Gale knows I'm working her.

"And if Snow gets you again?" he asks. "You don't even have a gun."

"I'll just have to take my chances," I shrug. "Like the rest of you." He knows what I'm planning, and I'm grateful he understands. He'll be good for her.

After a long moment, he pulls his nightlock tablet free and hands it over to me. I feel its deceptive lightness in my palm. But I don't want to take my chance to be free at his expense.

"What about you?"

He shrugs, grinning darkly. "Don't worry. Beetee showed me how to detonate my explosive arrows by hand. If that fails, I've got my knife. And I'll have Katniss." His smile falters a little as he meets my eyes. "She won't give them the satisfaction of taking me alive."

"Take it, Peeta," she says, wrapping my fingers around it. "No one will be there to help you."

Gale holds my gaze over her head, giving a tiny nod, and I place the pill in my breast pocket.

Our last night in the cellar drags on forever. Everyone sleeps in starts and fits, waking with groans and cries in the dark. I lie awake, staring at the dark hollow under the stairs, fingers tracing the outline of the small bump in my pocket. My chance to be free of all this. Away from the scream of hatred that bubbles constantly through my mind, turning the world dark around me. Away from the ever present fear that I will hurt someone. Away from my total failure to stop being used as a weapon against someone else.

 _I do. I need you._

Gale moans quietly in his sleep. If he doesn't make it, she'll have no one left to keep her safe. I toss in my pile of furs as I think of the powerful enemies arrayed against her. Battling titans, both wanting to use her death to their advantage. The Capitol citizens, rabid with fear, who will be surrounding her on all sides. Her own sense of duty driving her forward, toward danger most would run from.

 _I do. I need you._

The hum rises in my chest, gentler but no less demanding than the whisper's furious hatred. I can't be finished yet. I don't know how, but I have to protect Katniss. Finnick was right, she doesn't think through the consequences of her actions. She only sees what needs to be done, and it may kill her. Gale is too fierce, too black and white, like she is. I can't be sure he won't rush headlong into danger and leave her alone to face the fury of the Capitol and the rebels on either side. To protect Katniss, I have to protect Gale.

The morning finally arrives and we're all grateful to be moving with purpose again. Tigris amazes us by transforming our filthy, hastily gathered patchworks into undetectable disguises that will stand up to even close scrutiny.

"Never underestimate the power of a brilliant stylist," I marvel with a wink to the artist.

She glows and makes a gravely purring sound and her tail switches with pleasure. My heart goes out to her, thinking of how long she's been buried here, trying to forget her part in the horror that is the Games. Everywhere we go, we meet more people relying on us to bring them justice.

With our gear cleverly hidden and our faces artfully masked, we bid farewell to our hostess and ready ourselves to join the flow of refugees flooding toward the city center. Pollux and Cressida go first, a quick good-bye and they are gone, blending into the crowd without a backward glance. I breathe a silent plea for their safety and turn to Gale and Katniss, who will go next.

Katniss fits the key into the cuffs and removes them, my suddenly untethered wrists feeling like they could fly anywhere at any moment. I roll them around a few times, trying to feel like I can trust myself with freed hands. A sick heaving in my stomach is achingly familiar and I suddenly picture the jungle, steaming and close around us. Beetee had convinced Katniss and Johanna to take the coil of wire into the jungle, but every instinct I had was screaming not to let us be separated. Like then, I shove the instinct down and turn away from it.

"Listen," she says, her clear gray eyes searching mine. "Don't do anything foolish."

I'm caught off guard, I didn't think she knew which way my thoughts had been running. "No," I reply staunchly. "It's last resort stuff. Completely."

And then she flings her arms around my neck, pulling me close and tight. I freeze for just a second as the whisper rises to a maniacal scream, but then, almost by themselves, my arms wrap around her and the hum muffles the whisper into a distant buzz. I feel her pressed against me, smell her hair and feel her breath on my skin. A twanging thrum in my chest snaps into place and suddenly I feel complete and whole once more. It's as though the world had been swinging wildly around me and now was steady at last.

"All right, then," she says briskly, stepping back. I place one hand on the rack next to me as if expecting the vertigo to return, but I'm steady and strong. Katniss and Gale say good-bye to Tigris and disappear out into the freezing cold.

My chest aches, this is wrong. I can't let her out of my sight. I was wrong. The jungle is all around me again, I should never have let her go.

"Go after her, boy," Tigris purrs, her voice rough and low. "She'll need you."

I meet her golden eyes for a moment, see there what I know to be true. I nod silently and squeeze her arm. "Thank you. For everything. We'll make it right."

"You can't," she says, her eyes dropping away. "But you can stop it from continuing. Good luck." And then I'm out in the street, hood pulled close and eyes searching for the pair in the crowd.

The snow is falling thicker and heavier, but the sun is rising as well. It's easier to see, and I'm dismayed to easily pick out Gale's hulking form, moving with less downtrodden despair than he might imagine. Katniss too, moves with far too much purpose. I snake along behind them, eyes on the street and trying not to draw attention.

The air splits as a sudden burst of gunfire slices through the crowd and bodies tumble in a spray of red mist. Gale and Katniss dart behind a display rack just before another sweep of bullets levels more of the citizens who run blindly, screaming and crouching uselessly in the empty street. My eyes dart to the rooftops, it's rebel troops. Aiming for Peacekeepers, but hitting anyone standing upright. They begin dropping onto the street causing even more panicked chaos.

I grab the people milling frantically in useless circles near me and yank them to the sides, into doorways. "Stay calm, stay quiet," I hiss sharply. "They aren't coming for you. Stay out of the way and you'll be safe."

A man gathers his wife and child tremblingly close, pressed against a rack of stationery cards, watching me with frantic eyes. "How can you be sure? Maybe we should run for it?"

"Run where?" I demand. "Stay here, and tell anyone you see in the streets to get out of sight."

I feel a nauseous pull as I worry I'm losing Katniss. I lift my head quickly above the rack and scan the street, Gale's form is just disappearing across the intersection. I duck back down and press closer against the wall, hurrying along the street after them. As I cross into the next block it no longer matters that he stands out like a sore thumb. The rebels are streaming down the walls of the buildings, filling the streets and crowding behind cars and shop racks. Peacekeepers march determinedly to meet them, both sides blazing gunfire at each other and in between, panicked and with nowhere to go, are the refugees. Bleeding, crying, disoriented, they mill about while being mown down by enemy and friendly fire alike.

Cursing, I duck behind an abandoned car. Two more men are crouching there already, eyes wild and limbs trembling. Peering around the bumper, I can see a delivery truck to the side of the street.

"Listen," I hiss at the two men. "We have to get to that truck. If we can tip it, we can gather people behind it, out of the line of fire."

One man shakes his head adamantly. "No way," he cries. "I'm not going out there."

But the second man nods and we watch for our moment. In a pause, we sprint for the truck and crash around behind it, trembling and panting, but safe. A crack from up ahead, followed by a hiss and screams that cut off in chillingly bubbling cries.

With desperate haste, we shove our shoulders against the side of the truck and begin to heave. Two more people run to join us, one is cut down as she runs, but then we feel it begin to tip. It rocks and sways for a moment before crashing over onto its side. With relieved screams, the frightened refugees crowd behind and inside the sheltering bulk, cowering as the zinging bullets spray the streets all around them. If they stay here, they'll be safe.

I take a quick glance around the side and sprint swiftly across the road to the narrow doorway of a printer shop. Darting up the street the way Katniss was going, I drop and cover my head as a humming purple glow radiates from up ahead. Aside from the low hum, a tone matched by the frantically chattering whisper, I can find no danger, so I leap to my feet and continue up the avenue.

Bodies litter the street. Shot, trampled, bleeding from all orifices, and some looking – could it be cooked? I tremble for a moment, turning to empty my stomach into the snowy street before gritting my teeth and sprinting up the block, pleading silently I haven't lost them.

The Peacekeepers are thinning out, there's less gunfire as I run and I worry I've chosen the wrong route. I slow, trying to get my bearings, trying to feel the tether pull me toward her. A gigantic cracking sound and the barest tremble in the earth below my feet. Screams from up ahead. I run.

Hordes of people are rushing toward me, fleeing something terrible, but I hear her voice, frantic and not caring who can hear her.

"Gale! Gale!"

I round the corner and skid to a stop, teetering crazily on the edge of an impossible drop. The street has completely disappeared. It just ends. A dizzying stench from below and a buzzing pull in the back of my brain. There are mutts down there.

"Over here!" My gaze whips to the familiar voice and my breath catches in my throat. Unbelievably, Gale is dangling over the abyss, clinging to a railing around an apartment door.

"Cover yourself!"

I snap my head around and see Katniss, safely on the other side, on steady ground. She lifts a gun and fires expertly at the lock until the door swings open. Gale heaves himself inside, landing in a pile just inside the door. And then the Peacekeepers have him.

He screams at Katniss to run, to shoot him and go, but she can't hear him. Can't imagine what he's asking of her. They're pulling him inside. In no time, they'll realize who they have. Katniss turns and sprints away and I check my breast pocket for my insurance. It's there, snug and waiting. Moving quickly, I inch along the narrow ledge remaining of the street and teeter on the step of the apartment where Gale disappeared. I knock firmly on the door.


	31. Chapter 31

My knock teeters me backward and I grab the doorframe to regain my balance. The door swings open on its ruined latch and I step inside quickly. Three Peacekeepers look up, startled, but not as startled as the man they are crouching around. His hand is closed around the end of an arrow and I flinch instinctively.

"What are you doing?" the man at his head barks at me. Gale hastily releases his grip on the arrowhead and turns slightly away, using the distraction to hide his face.

"I was on the street," I say, my voice trembling convincingly. "It just fell away. People are falling in, they need your help, sir." I raise my hands pleadingly, moving marginally closer to the second soldier and positioning myself between him and Gale.

"They need more help than I can give," he growls. He turns back to Gale, interested in the bow, clearly unaware of who has fallen into his lap. "You're awfully well armed for a refugee. Whose house did you loot to come across such a prize?"

Gale is trying desperately to avoid eye contact without looking suspicious about it. In seconds the soldiers will put together the bow and his size and they will realize who he is. I'm not being any use at all as a distraction. Unable to think of anything else, I launch myself at the nearest soldier. He is caught completely off guard and we go down in a tangle of curses and flying limbs. Wrapping my legs around his, I sweep him over onto his back and reach behind me to grab the ankle of the second guard. With a quick tug, he's down too and Gale leaps for the third. The sharp crack of a gunshot and Gale grunts painfully, his arm flying backward. My elbow is ratcheted around the neck of the guard I grabbed while I scissor my legs around the first one, the soldier who fired his gun. With a quick twist I hear a sickening snap and I'm holding a limp body. The whisper wails in ecstasy and my vision strobes, but I reach for the first guard and press my arm across his neck, his legs kicking and flopping until he gasps into stillness. Another shot and Gale cries out, flying backward. I fling myself across a low table and crash into the guard, barreling him forward onto his face. On the way down, his gun fires again and a black hole rips open the front of his white uniform. He doesn't feel it when he hits the ground.

Panting, I crawl to Gale who lies on his back, clutching his side while blood pours from his shoulder. The second soldier's chest rises and falls shallowly, but I don't point it out to Gale, certain he would end it. We need to move immediately.

"How?" he gasps painfully, face twisted in a fierce grimace as he grips his ribs.

"Seemed like you could use a diversion," I shrug, pulling his hand away and trying to see the wound. "Katniss is away, at least she was running when I saw you dangling over the pit." A shallow gash across the tight plane of his ribs is blackened at the edges, but doesn't seem deep or serious. "That probably burns like hell, but I think your shoulder is worse," I tell him.

He grunts and nods, trying to control his breathing. "Doesn't matter," he gasps. "We have to go now. Right now."

"You can rest for just a second," I tell him. "You'll only get caught again if you try running right now. Get your breath back." I scan the room quickly, looking for something to bind his wound with, hoping the guard stays unconscious until we leave. I force my eyes away from the two who won't wake, the whisper chanting with insane triumph. _murderer killer butcher_ A clean looking rag is draped over a chair back and I grab for it with relief.

"I'm not as good as Katniss," I warn, winding the cloth under his arm as tightly as I dare. His breath draws in sharply, but I pull mercilessly. The winged demon flares across my eyes as I try to copy the knot Katniss made for my leg, sliding a long-handled fork through and winding until Gale curses me through clenched teeth. The makeshift tourniquet is already starting to redden, and his lips are frighteningly pale, his eyes glazed.

"We're going out the back," I tell him, peering toward the rear of the house. He nods uncomprehendingly and scrabbles around, trying to gain his feet. He's losing a lot of blood. I get my shoulder under his arm and heave him upright, supporting his tottering weight the best I can. We stumble through the silent house and I lean him against the wall while I ease open the back door, scanning for lurking Peacekeepers. The back alley is eerily quiet, carrying the echoes of the despairing cries and distant gunfire from the front. Pulling his arm around my neck, we make our way outside.

Gale is wobbling on his feet, his eyes rolling sluggishly in his head. The bandage is bright red already and I grind my teeth in frustration. With all the wounds I've been around, it seems like I'd have picked up something about healing.

"You're doing great," I whisper as I scan the alleyway with frantic eyes. Where to go? Someone is going to see us and that will be that. "We'll be safe soon."

He shakes his head doggedly, "Katniss," he slurs.

"I know," I grind out, my own anxiety screeching against my helplessness. What to do?

I jump like a startled deer when a door across the alleyway swings open and a tiny man pokes his head out, his eyes darting up and down the path, hissing and waving us toward him. I appreciate the kindness, but once he realizes who we are, it will be a different story. I shake my head, and wave silently, trying to signal that we're fine.

"Peeta," his voice barely carries across the yard. "Come quickly!"

My heart thuds into my shoes and Gale's head rolls on his neck, trying to focus on the threat. I haul him around, readying to run, but the man calls out again.

"Junius was my son!"

I freeze. _traps tricks lies danger_ The whisper buzzes an angry warning and I stand, rooted to the spot by indecision. Finally, I realize we have no other choice. If it comes down to it, I'll shove the nightlock through Gale's teeth and try to grab his knife for me.

Crossing the small patch of alleyway, I drag Gale along and we crowd through the doorway into a dimly lit apartment. The small man is teary-eyed and trembling like a leaf, clutching at us and trying to get us inside quickly. Gale drops into a seat at the kitchen table and slumps forward, head cradled on one arm, the other hanging limply at his side. Junius' father, if it really is him, flutters around the kitchen, gathering towels and water. And then I see a picture of Junius, beaming next to my Capitol headshot, framed on the wall over the table.

"He loved you," the man says, his voice low and cracked, unable to meet my eyes. "He thought you were so brave and so kind. He always said it was an honor to work for you."

I swallow a lump in my throat. "He was brave, too," I reply. "He knew he was going to be in trouble at the end, and he only wanted to do what was right. You would have been proud of him."

The man's hands still for only a moment. "Thank you," he whispers. "I am."

After a fraught pause, he finally looks at me. "I have a closet behind the bathroom that can't be found without knowing to look for it. You can hide there."

This is where Junius got his courage. I hate to do this to him, hiding a rebel of Gale's stature means certain death, but my blood is screaming with the need to find Katniss.

"I need to go, I have to find my friends. But, I'm so sorry, can he stay?"

Junius' father nods, resolute and terrified. "I'll keep him safe."

"I know you will." I offer my hand. "We haven't met. I'm Peeta Mellark, from District Twelve."

"I'm Cassius Deluze," he replies, shaking my hand firmly. "I have no affiliation any longer."

The ache in his voice twists in my chest. I grasp his wrist and meet his eyes. "Soon, we'll all be from Panem," I promise him.

Cassius helps me slip out the front door into a nearly empty street. He hisses directions to the City Circle, only a block away, and ducks quickly back inside, the door thumping firmly closed. I run. Around the corner I slide to a stop, swallowed up in the flood of refugees all moving in the same direction. It's like the dreams Eirik used to have. No matter how hard he ran, he never gained ground. I struggle forward, fighting my way through the throng of despondent, crushed humanity huddled together for warmth and security.

The closer I get to the City Circle, the louder the whisper rings in my ears. Visions of flaming chariots, screaming crowds, leering sponsors all flare before my eyes and I begin to see grasping hands and bared teeth. My hands pull automatically against cuffs that aren't there and I bite my lip until I taste blood, trying to force my mind to focus on the need at hand. I scan the crowd for her bright red cloak.

Unable to see anything, I pull myself up on the flat surface of a bollard, teetering and dangerously exposed. My eyes fly over the surging crowd, and then I see it. A large, rectangular pen in front of the mansion is guarded by anxious looking Peacekeepers. Its concrete walls hold in scores of children, clustered together and shivering, terrified and freezing. Forming a human shield in front of the mansion.

My vision jumps and stutters and my hands begin to shake. Rage, hot and roiling, churns through my belly and rises in a furious tide through my blood. With a strangled snarl I leap down and start toward the barricades, the crush of bodies falling aside as I stalk toward the guards keeping children between danger and Snow.

A screaming pulse in the crowd and the wave of refugees is blown sideways, carrying me with it. Voices rise in panic, "The rebels! The rebels!" and the crush swells back as the rebel army surges into the Circle, refugees fleeing frantically. I brace for the blasts of pods they must activate, but curiously, they don't come. Warily, I turn back to my path. A tremor in the air, a low hum, and a hovercraft appears over the penned in children. The seal of the Capitol gleams prominently from the shining hull, but something about it tugs at my mind. If Snow is desperate enough to hide behind children, why wouldn't he use the craft to flee?

With a hiss of opening hatches, a swarm of silver parachutes flutters over the children, bright with promises of valuable gifts. Their hands reach upward, grasping and clutching, freezing and blue but eager nonetheless. The hovercraft vanishes as suddenly as it appeared, and tiny fingers work at strings, fervently prying open the unexpected treasures. Two heartbeats later, a concussive blast as a scattering of the parachutes detonate.

My knees buckle and I drop to the snow, screams are rising over the red mist and miniature corpses. Stunned astonishment gives way to frantic commotion. A rising swell surges toward the barricades where the trapped children are either lying in crumpled heaps or writhing in spreading crimson pools. Some stagger blindly, unable to comprehend what's happened.

The Peacekeepers begin desperately heaving at the concrete barriers, clearing a way to the children who still clutch numbly at silvery bundles. The flash of sunlight off one parachute flares in my vision and I leap to my feet, icy dread turning my steps leaden as I rush forward. It was no coincidence only some of the parachutes loosed their deadly load, my suspicions confirmed as another host of white uniforms rush through the gap toward the wailing children. The painfully familiar medical uniforms of District Thirteen flood into the penned area, escorted by troops of rebel soldiers. The children are bait.

As if in a nightmare, I fight my way forward, screaming my warning. But my way is blocked by the milling, horrified people and my voice is lost in their mourning wail. Like an insect trapped in an amber bubble, I'm immobile, inert, voiceless. Ahead of me, clinging to a flagpole, a figure swathed in a billowing black cloak screams into the crowd.

"Prim!"

She leaps into the crowd and for a moment I lose her. Then she surfaces, closer to the barricade, fighting her way to the concrete pen and the crowd of medics there. Time slows around me as I watch her race toward the danger, into the grip of catastrophe. With a strangled cry of despair, I lunge forward, just as the rest of the parachutes explode.

A bloom of coppery orange and radiant gold. Glowing balls of luminescent beauty fly over the crowd against the thrumming boom of the eruption. Her cloak flares into fiery wings as she flies back toward me. A fireball runs its blazing touch along my chest and over my shoulder, gifting me my own flaming wings as I sprint toward her, reaching for her, clutching her to my chest, wrapping her in my arms where she should have been all along, where she should always remain.

With a crash, we tumble backward into the snow and I rip her flaming cloak away, my own wings flaring out behind me, licking tongues of flame along my jaw and up my neck, across my face. I roll her over in the snow, smothering the fiery hunger that tries to devour her, my hands gladly taking the flames from her as I beat away the blazing heat from her terrifyingly still body. But other hands are pulling at me, prying me away from her, and I have no strength left to fight them. I collapse onto the snowy ground next to her, consumed, as I always knew I would be, by her fire.


	32. Chapter 32

I burn. From within, without, all is fire. A sea of flame tosses me on its crests and pulls me into its depths. There is nothing but the heat. I can't cry out, I can't fight it, and I can't succumb. The eternal burning eats away my body, my self, until I am only bone, white and bleached in the heat. I have no weight, I don't exist. Fire mutts worry at me constantly. They turn and tumble my bones, trying to resettle me into a human form, trying to coat me in layers of muscle and flesh. Trying to make my body move like a human's.

Voices echo around me, worried and afraid. I'm not responding well…I'm rejecting grafts…I've given up. Words bounce and tremble in my skull, but find no purchase, I can't find myself a place in the world.

"Please, Peeta." The gentle pull calls through the layers of pain where I float, disembodied and untethered. Reeling away from the broken, burned shell that will soon loose its hold on me.

"Please, Peeta." The pleading insistence calls across the distance to me. Why won't it let me be?

"Katniss needs you."

The tether snaps taut and searing agony boils over me as I'm jolted back into the blistered husk of my body. Mrs. Everdeen whispers and calls to me, dragging me back inside, pinning me into the ruined casing that holds me to this earth.

"Katniss needs you. Please don't leave her. Please, Peeta."

Soundlessly, I scream with the pain of it. I'm burning, burning, burning. And then, a flood of cold, icy relief. I swim in the ocean of morphling, buoyed on the waves of its siren call to let go. Let go of the pain, the grief, the horror. I am nothing and nothing can claim me.

My body begins to respond. Doctors drape me in new skin, exercise new muscles and flush my veins with new blood. My lungs are repaired, my throat, my hands. I even have a new leg, a metal and coil frame covered in a lifelike latex compound. The morphling sea quiets all worries, I am nothing and nothing can claim me.

And eventually I surface. One day I see Mrs. Everdeen, rather than just hear her plead with me to stay for her daughter. She seems to have aged twenty years, her eyes sunken and her skin looking stretched over sharp cheekbones. The depth of grief etched in her face shimmers before my eyes and my hand moves automatically to reach for her. The new muscles scream against the strain and the skin burns as I gasp painfully.

"Oh, be still," she flutters, reaching to push the button dosing more morphling into my veins.

I begin to spin away again, floating on the gentle waves of my own world, untouched by the pain of this one. But I fight it, I fight my mind into a moment of coherence.

"So sad?" I mutter, my throat cracking in disuse and lips stiff with scars.

Tears flood her bright blue eyes, the eyes that so captivated my father all those years ago. Her voice scratches and trembles, but she holds my eyes.

"Prim was there."

A new iciness floods my lungs and I see her again, black cloak billowing around her as she screamed into the crowd before leaping down and running toward the barricade. The frantic white throng of rebel medics rushing in to the shattered cluster of children. The explosion that swept flame across the remaining survivors, soldiers, medics and children alike.

My mind screams with the horror of it, my hands want to claw and rip, my teeth to gnash and grind. But I float silently, trapped inside the grief of it with no way to dispel it. The morphling smothers me in its embrace.

News begins to come. Snow's attack on the children was the final straw and his last supports fled, leaving him to the rebel forces. The Capitol is now in the hands of President Alma Coin. Snow is a war criminal, imprisoned and awaiting trial.

Gale was hidden and tended by Cassius until he could rejoin the rebels and he is back on duty in District Two, cleaning up last pockets of Peacekeeper resistance. Cressida and Pollux are also reassigned, they're in the field reporting on the aftermath of the war, and Coin's efforts to unify the country.

Katniss has been released from the hospital, living in a room in the mansion. She doesn't speak, wrapped in grief for her sister. Her mother works constantly, trying to lose herself there.

As time passes and I grow stronger, I'm allowed visitors. All are warned not to upset me, as if there was any use in that warning. The first to see me is Haymitch, it has always been this way. He marvels at my new leg, jokes about my not missing anything by being denied solid food, tries to avoid my seeing his haunted eyes. I feel nothing but sympathy for him. He has lost everything in trying to stop a horror the only way he knew how.

Annie comes to see me as well. She, too, carries a burden of grief too heavy to speak of. But she also comes with joyful news. We cry together when she tells me she carries Finnick's child, and we spend a happy hour sharing stories and weaving hopes for the new baby.

Delly, Lef, Greasy Sae, Soldier Deen. All sorts of people bring all sorts of news, happy and sad. Some breaks my heart, some tears my new skin with laughter. But none will quiet the growing clamor in my chest. A deep and aching emptiness skims at the edges of my mind, pulls at my thoughts, floods my imagination with unanswerable questions. Why doesn't she come?

I've lost all track of time. I may have been here weeks, maybe years. My body is so new, so little of what's left is what I started with, that I feel like a stranger in my own skin. And my mind startles and jumps at little things. But most different of all, the whisper is a muffled echo in the distance. If I concentrate, I can make it out, but mostly it's a vague sense of dread in the back of my mind. Though, occasionally, it flares up, seemingly for no reason. I grit my teeth and clench my fists, fighting it back with the fierce determination of someone who risks being swallowed alive if he loses the battle.

I stay in the hospital, I can't stomach a room in the mansion, and I'm glad of it. Dr. Aurelius visits occasionally. He's lost his out-of-touch optimism, as have many of the citizens of Thirteen. He also lost his daughter in the war and we help each other with the pain of mourning. One day he arrives with a tall, striking woman who looks like she's seen more battle than peace in her lifetime. She introduces herself as Commander Paylor and then I recognize her, the fierce leader of the rebels from District 8.

She watches me with careful weariness, asking politely after my health and thanking me for my service. I'm not sure how much service I've been to anyone, but I, too, am polite to a fault and for a while the conversation is clipped and short. And then she decides we've made enough small talk.

"I'm sure you're wondering why I'm here," she says briskly. "I have been asked a favor, and I feel I owe it to you to ask before denying it outright."

I'm confused. How does she owe me anything? "Of course," I reply. "If there's anything I can help with, I'm happy to do it."

"You misunderstand," she tells me. Her eyes flick to Aurelius for a moment, but then back to hold my gaze with her steady dark one. "It's not a favor for me. President Snow has been sentenced to death. He wishes to speak to you before his execution."

I brace for the whisper to scream into focus, but instead I see President Coin before my eyes. I pause to consider what this might mean, why I would want to talk to Snow at all. Why he would want to talk to me. To ease his conscience? I doubt it, he doesn't feel he did anything wrong. I think of Coin, so eaten up with hatred and vengeance she's lost sight of her own humanity. I don't want that for myself. I've had enough hatred for several lifetimes.

"I can speak to him," I tell her. Dr. Aurelius looks dismayed, and even Paylor is surprised. I shrug. "What else can he do to me?" I ask.

And that's how my first trip out of the hospital finds me standing in front of the door to his study once again. I look around at the familiar rich furnishings. I don't feel afraid, I only feel loss. Two guards are posted outside and Paylor accompanies me. She looks at me questioningly, gesturing with her head to go in, too. I shake my head no and with a quick knock, I let myself in.

He's sitting in a tall-backed chair before the empty fireplace. His gaze doesn't leave the window as I enter and seat myself in the chair opposite him. He continues to stare blindly and I wait for him to speak. He asked for this, after all.

As I wait, I examine him. He is well-groomed, well-dressed as ever, but wearing cuffs at ankle and wrist, a tracker blinking silently from the manacles. His skin is a terrible, sickly green. He looks to be in the last stages of a horrible withdrawal, shaky and sweating. Clutched in his hand is a handkerchief, snowy white except for where it's stained with his blood.

Finally, he turns his cold, pale gaze to me. He smiles.

"You look awful."

I nod. "It's been a rough year. How about you?"

"Not my best," he admits. "I think I can tell where I went wrong, though."

I snort. "You think so?"

His eyes drift back to the window. "I used to be the Mockingjay, you know," he says, his voice soft and faraway. I watch him carefully, not willing to assume anything from this man.

"I was born on the tenth anniversary of the Hunger Games," he continues, as if telling a story he's told many times. "My mother was ill and the birth was too much for her. My father was unable to forgive me and I was sent to live with an aunt. The Capitol was a chaotic place then, filthy and villainous. The districts had been beaten, but not yet subdued. There were still pockets of resistance that would flare up occasionally. I grew up with the constant fear that suicide bombers would walk into the café where I was eating, or I'd be caught in the crossfire of a street-battle that raged out of nowhere."

He pauses a moment, his eyes distant, reliving this memory. When he continues, his voice is tinged with anger.

"When I was fifteen, it was the year of the first Quarter Quell. Districts were required to remember it was their choices that had brought on the war, and therefor they were to choose, by a vote, the tributes for the Games that year. They refused. They revolted, they fought back. So many more deaths. And the Capitol citizens were horrified, they began to lose faith. I was barely more than a boy myself, but I'd made a friend of the daughter of the President. One night, at dinner, I made my case." His voice grows hard.

"President Silk was a weak man. He had been chosen because he had been too cowardly to fight in the wars, leaving him with a squeaky clean reputation for a nation exhausted by fighting. He won in a landslide, though, of course, it was rigged. These things always are.

But he didn't have the stomach to do what needed to be done. He couldn't bring himself to squash the last of the resistance against him, bring the districts to heel once and for all. And so I stepped in. I advised him, helped him to see that others could do the work for him, and he still take all the credit. I helped him pick a Gamemaker with imagination. Instead of simply a contained arena where children fought to the death, the Games became a spectacle. The audience was fascinated. I introduced the idea of sponsors, allowing them to participate and help favorites. I introduced the cameras. I made it a national holiday."

His voice is rising and he suddenly leans forward, hacking into his handkerchief. When he leans back, he looks worn and drawn. He watches me blearily, pride shining from his eyes.

"From there, it was a series of small steps to turn the Capitol into a place of debauched idiocy. Empty headed, easily controlled cattle. I led from behind the scenes for a while, but when I was ready, I had Silk framed for embezzling and took power myself. I created a web of influence that was practically invincible. I changed the course of history, _I_ was the Mockingjay, leading the people to where they thought they wanted to go because they had no better idea of their own."

I stare at him in numb disbelief. This is not the story we learned in history classes. But somehow, I don't doubt a word.

"You said you knew where you went wrong." I'm not sure I want to hear it.

He nods slowly. "I built my reputation on fearsome, iron rule. No one dared to stand against me for fear of what the retribution would be. There was no limit to what I would do."

I wait. He stares at me with his puffy lips glinting in the fading light and a tiny spark of amusement dancing in the depths of his icy gaze.

"That's why no one would doubt it was me who dropped the bombs on the children."

He waits patiently for it to work its way through. At first I wait too, wait for him to continue his tale. But he only watches me, the barest hint of a sadistic smile pulling at his blood speckled lips when he sees me get hold of it.

"Doubt?" I echo numbly. "Of course it was you. Who else could it –" But the words freeze on my tongue as her face wavers before my eyes once again. Cold and calculating, willing to pay any price for what she thought the world owed her. Her own medics? Her own soldiers? All those children?

Snow laughs softly, ending in a rasping cough. "You've always been the quicker one, the thinker. It took Katniss forever to understand. I had to spell it out for her." He watches me with wicked joy glinting in his pale, snakelike eyes. "That's where I went wrong. I should have killed you after the first Games."

He says it with such nonchalance, it doesn't even register as a threat. He smiles benignly at me with his bloody, puffy lips and crafty eyes.

"Without you, she is nothing. Without your words to make people love her, without your comfort to make her feel secure. Without your ridiculous moral compass she was always measuring herself against. She'd have been hated within six months, dead in seven. And Coin could choke on her pitiful, upstart rebellion." This last is ground out with such violent hatred, I sway backward a little.

He looks at me, fury burning in his glare. "And now she has what she wanted. And now you have her. And the Mockingjay put her there. Congratulations."

He begins to cough, a terrible rasping hack, into his handkerchief. There is a glass of water on the desk but I just stare at it, making no move toward it. I listen to him gag and wheeze but I sit quietly, staring blindly. And then, I stand. I cross to the door and leave the room, closing the door gently behind me, the sounds of his gasping and choking fading as I walk down the hall and out of the mansion.


	33. Chapter 33

Once again I am not in control of the voice in my head. But this time it isn't the whisper's hateful call for destruction and mayhem, or the hum's gentle nudge toward protection and sacrifice. This is my own voice, shame-filled and guilt-ridden. I can't control the deluge of blame. I knew. I knew Coin was poison, and I did nothing to stop her. Worse, I helped her, handing her the prize she'd schemed and plotted after for so long.

I clench my hands in my hair, wanting to scream out loud with the agonized frustration of it. Wanting to scour myself clean of the part I played, burn myself pure again. I will never be free of this. I am a pawn, stumbling blindly at their will, spreading ruin and destruction wherever I go. I will never be able to repay this debt. I slump in the corner in the dark, cradling my head in my hands, hating myself.

"Hello, Peeta."

My head snaps up at the impossibly familiar voice. Effie Trinket stands in the doorway, gilded wig glinting in the dim light, clutching a clipboard. Her dress, plum velvet with black piping, is as stylish as ever, her teetering heels as treacherous as ever. But her eyes are different. She looks hollowed out, like her sweet wine with all the bubbles extracted.

"Hello, Effie. It's good to see you," I reply carefully. Her vacant look is worrying, she seems like she could fold in on herself and disappear at any moment. Where has she been all this time? What has happened to her?

"It's another big, big, big day today," she intones, the smile pulling her lips up but not reaching her eyes. "I'm so sorry, we only have one prep team left, and they're busy with Katniss right now. And…" her voice falters. "There's no outfit for you. Only the jumpsuit." She looks as though she may cry.

"It's alright, Effie," I say gently, standing and crossing to take her hand in mine. "Are you here to take me to the mansion?" I smile into her eyes, sparkling with tears.

"Oh, Peeta," she whimpers, her face crumpling and tremors shaking her whole body. "I didn't know! I'm so sorry!"

Gathering her into my arms, I stroke her back as she cries, heartbroken sobs of grief and loss wracking her slight frame. My own guilt and shame burn as she weeps for what she's done, what she's been part of, and I feel the sting of tears in my own eyes. But tears and self-loathing won't erase the things I've done, won't change what's happened because of me. We need to atone for what we've done. I hold her, murmuring comfort and reassurance until the storm begins to subside and she finally steps back, wiping at her eyes and sniffling unabashedly.

"We've all done things we're ashamed of," I tell her softly. "We owe a lot of people to do better. To be better. It's the only way we can make up for it."

She nods slowly, and a bit of the life creeps back into her eyes. She smooths her skirt and straightens her shoulders. "I will. We will. We have an appointment before the – before the…event, and we can't be late." She looks ready to cry again and I hastily promise her I won't be late. I don't know what I have to meet about, maybe Plutarch wants to talk about camera angles and whether we should be in a line or an arc? Leave it to him to make an execution into a television event.

My heart is heavy and my mind fuzzy when I follow the guide's nod through the door into the meeting room. I freeze when I see the company seated around the large table, all sitting in heavy silence. Haymitch, Beetee, Enobaria, Johanna and Annie look up when I enter, all as puzzled as I am. Hesitantly, I make my way to an empty seat next to Johanna and look around the table at the gathering of victors. This can't be good.

"What's going on?" I ask hollowly.

"We don't know either," Haymitch drawls, a slight slur to his words. "And we've had this conversation about three times already. Let's wait a second, I'm guessing Katniss will be here in a minute, and then we can try and hash out what all this means."

My stomach flips over at the mention of Katniss joining us, but I'm more concerned with why these particular people are gathered together on this day of all days. I fidget self-consciously as Johanna stares at my scars. Beetee won't meet my eyes and I feel sorry for him. He likely designed the bomb that was used to kill all those children. What a weight he must be carrying. The rest of the victors are equally quiet. Annie cradles the small bump of a belly that is just starting to show and Enobaria can't keep her eyes off her. Haymitch looks like he's purposefully trying to not appear drunk.

The door swings open and Katniss strides through, dressed in her full Mockingjay regalia and glowing with radiant beauty. My breath freezes in my throat at the sight of her, just as she freezes when she sees us all sitting here.

"What's this?" she demands, her voice ringing with distrust.

"We're not sure," Haymitch shrugs. "It appears to be a gathering of the remaining victors."

"We're all that's left?" her shock echoes mine and we both stare in disbelief around the tiny group.

"The price of celebrity," Beetee replies in quiet confirmation. "We were targeted from both sides. The Capitol killed the victors they suspected of being rebels. The rebels killed those thought to be allied to the Capitol." A deep sadness pulls at my heart at this grim news. So much more death.

"So what's she doing here?" Johanna spits at Enobaria, just as the door swings open once again.

" _She_ is protected under what we call the Mockingjay Deal." Coin's smug self-righteousness has increased ten-fold since I last saw her. She's dropped all pretense of being a struggling leader of the people, just fighting for justice. She wears a tailored jacket over a slim skirt, gold accents gleaming from the pocket flaps, and her curtain of hair is coiled in elaborate plaits behind her head.

"Wherein Katniss Everdeen agreed to support the rebels in exchange for captured victors' immunity." The rest of her words are lost on me as my eyes flash to Katniss. My immunity. She only agreed to be their Mockingjay if they wouldn't try me as a traitor for my apparent siding with Snow. My heart skips a couple beats and my hands feel sweaty.

I force my attention back to the conversation. Katniss is seated next to Annie and Coin is looking around the circle of us with a brittle, superior air. "I've asked you here to settle a debate," she says briskly. "Today we will execute Snow. In the previous weeks, hundreds of his accomplices in the oppression of Panem have been tried and now await their own deaths. However, the suffering in the districts has been so extreme that these measures appear insufficient to the victims. In fact, many are calling for a complete annihilation of those who held Capitol citizenship. However, in the interest of maintaining a sustainable population, we cannot afford this."

This news, too, pulls at my heart. I understand the anger and grief, all those bereaved families must be frantic with loss. It will take time to knit us back together as a nation, to learn to live side by side.

My chest is tight for another reason as well, though. I can't tear my eyes from Katniss. She is magnificent in her triumph. She sits straight and tall, the armor glinting with dark strength, her eyes echoing the flare of power. Scars run along her hands and up her arms, disappearing in the folds that hide the white wings, but reappearing over the collar to flare across her throat. My arms ache with the need to gather her close, to smooth the frown from her brow and kiss the sadness from her eyes.

Those same eyes flash to meet mine and I flick my gaze guiltily away. I have no right.

"So, an alternative has been placed on the table," Coin is still speaking in that haughty, cold voice. I force myself to focus on what she's saying, not how shiny and touchable Katniss' hair looks. "Since my colleagues and I can come to no consensus, it has been agreed that we will let the victors decide. A majority of four will approve the plan. No one may abstain from the vote." My eyes narrow as I clench my jaw. She is certainly not going to force me to vote on her toxic plans. She has no claim over me. "What has been proposed is that in lieu of eliminating the entire Capitol population, we have a final, symbolic Hunger Games, using the children directly related to those who held the most power."

A dead silence drops over the table as we all gape at her.

"What?" asks Johanna, her voice low with disbelief.

"We hold another Hunger Games using Capitol children," Coin repeats, unruffled.

"Are you joking?" I demand sharply. This is too much, even for her.

"No," she denies flatly, looking almost pleased, like she has us in her clutches. "I should also tell you that if we do hold the Games, it will be known it was done with your approval, although the individual breakdown of your votes will be kept secret for your own security," she finishes with a reassuring nod. Our security? Is that why she thinks we're silent? She obviously wants to present this plan as stamped with our approval, adding legitimacy to her vile plot and strengthening her claim to power through our unified support of her.

"Was this Plutarch's idea?" Haymitch asks, an edge of suspicion in his voice.

"It was mine," she replies firmly. "It seemed to balance the need for vengeance with the least loss of life. You may cast your votes."

"No!" I cry furiously. "I vote no, of course! We can't have another Hunger Games!" I can't believe she thinks we'd even discuss this.

"Why not?" Johanna murmurs, her eyes burning with hungry rage. "It seems very fair to me. Snow even has a granddaughter. I vote yes."

I stare at her in shock. Even with what she's been through, I can't imagine her wishing this on someone else's child. But then Enobaria offers her support as well. How can they do this? What do they think we just fought for? What did so many give their lives for?

"This is why we rebelled! Remember?" I stare around the table, searching their eyes for understanding. They can't know what they're voting for. "Annie?" I plead.

"I vote no with Peeta," she says, her voice more firm than I've ever heard it, her hand protectively cradling her belly. "So would Finnick if he were here."

"But he isn't," Johanna growls, blinded by hate. "Because Snow's mutts killed him."

"No," says Beetee, and I look to him gratefully. "It would set a bad precedent. We have to stop viewing one another as enemies. At this point, unity is essential for our survival. No."

I nod rapidly, drawing a shaky breath. I need to focus my thoughts, not let my emotions run away with me. These votes are from anger and pain. Only two are left, and thankfully, I know both of them agree with me.

"We're down to Katniss and Haymitch," Coin says silkily.

Katniss, her eyes fixed on a single rosebud in a water glass, doesn't look up.

"I vote yes…for Prim."

My heart crashes to the floor and my breath freezes in my throat. I stare at her, wide-eyed and disbelieving. The fiery demon flares behind my eyes.

"Haymitch, it's up to you," Coin purrs.

"Haymitch," I beg, "don't do this. We can't do this. Of course they're angry, of course they're in pain. But this is not the answer." He says nothing, his eyes steady on Katniss. "We're the only victors left," I remind him desperately. "Are you going to mentor another pair? Get more children ready to die?" His eyes flicker, but he doesn't look at me. "Please. These are not the only two options," I plead. "Killing everyone or killing their children? What are we doing? What have we become? If we let this happen, how is she different from Snow? How are _we_ different from Snow?" He still says nothing and I can feel the panic rising in my throat, clawing its way up from deep in my belly. I can hear the whisper ringing with ecstatic fury. "Haymitch, please."

"I'm with the Mockingjay," he says.

My legs give out and I fall back into my seat, my hands shaking and my vision blurring as hot tears burn behind my eyes. What have we done? What have we done?

As if I were blind, I stumble where people lead me, lost in grief and despair. My mind reels wildly, trying to think of a way out. How am I going to stop this? The roar of a crowd filling the City Circle barely registers over the scream of the whisper. I stare numbly out over the throng, dizzied by the juxtaposition of every other time I've been here. Now, I am on the dais, above the common people, one of the distinguished and privileged minority held above the rest who will sacrifice their children to win my pleasure. Coin waves patronizingly from the balcony. I feel sick.

The roar of the crowd swells to screaming chaos when Snow is led out onto the terrace. His hands are tied behind a post, but it only adds to the pathetic image of a crushed man being jeered at in his defeat. Coin smiles triumphantly.

My vision stutters and jumps as Katniss reaches back for an arrow, knocks it with stony confidence. Snow coughs and blood trickles down his chin. I grip my fists into trembling knots, thinking of his granddaughter. Thinking of her watching this on television, thanks to Plutarch.

Katniss' arrow shifts, she releases and stands as it flies, posed exactly as she was when she brought the arena crashing down around us. Just before the world exploded. The arrow flies wide, arcing upward, finding its mark as true as ever. My father was always so amazed, she can take them through the eye every time.

As Coin tumbles over the balcony, a shocked silence rolls over the crowd, broken only by the wheezing, bubbling cackle of Snow's delighted laughter, paired with the foaming cough as he chokes and gags, keeling over against the restraints holding him to the post.

A sea of gray uniforms surges toward Katniss who waits, statue still, for them to come for her. I see her eyes sweep the crowd, defiant and unapologetic, and my heart swells with aching pride. Snow was wrong. She doesn't need me, she is only one of us strong enough to do what needed to be done. And now, she will take the consequences, with no whimper or whining.

I move with lightning quickness, covering the distance between us in the space of a heartbeat, my hand reaching, my feet pushing forward. And I'm there. Her strong, white teeth sink into the back of my hand as I dart in, covering the small pocket where Cinna hid her insurance, stealing this last, clean escape from her.

Her gray eyes flash as she struggles against my grip, trying to pull herself free. Now I understand why she wouldn't leave me in the candy colored house. Not because she didn't care what I wanted, but because there is no power on Earth strong enough to make either one of us give up on the other.

"Let me go!" she rages, tearing at my hand.

But I answer her honestly. "I can't."


	34. Chapter 34

Chaos. Gray uniforms swarm over us and surround her, carrying her away from me. Katniss is screaming and writhing like a banshee, but the guards are holding her up, safely away from the crowd beginning to thaw from the shock and starting a low chanting of grief, calling for her blood. I barrel ahead, shoving the grasping hands away, helping to clear the way so they can get her inside, protect her from the rising wail of the furious mob. The door slams behind her and I turn with the remaining troops to keep the throng from tearing it from its hinges to get to her. More guards rush to our aid and the crowd is dispersed, angry, but so accustomed to following orders they give up with hardly a fight.

The commander approaches, speaking quickly into his communicator. "I need you to come with me, Mr. Mellark," he rasps.

"Of course." I am unbelievably tired, drained from the wildly swinging events of the day. Horrified and relieved and fearful.

We march briskly to the command center set up inside the mansion. A flurry of motion and hectic scrambling as people rush around, trying to recover from losing their president, their rebel hero, and their future all in one afternoon. Commander Paylor stands in the midst of the madness, barking orders and steering the wildly careening staff. Plutarch is hunched in a corner, speaking excitedly into a communicator of his own, apparently checking that it aired and was recorded properly. My lip curls.

Paylor turns and sees me, her face turning to stone as she regards me with her dark, measuring glare. She finishes speaking to the aide at her side and jerks her head sharply for me to follow her. We leave the frenzied hall and she closes the door on a small side room, the sudden drop in noise and motion making the silence somehow louder. Paylor studies me intently for a moment.

"What did Snow say to you?" she asks suddenly.

I watch her carefully. She doesn't have the same bereaved look as many in the hall outside. She didn't just lose a savior.

"What do you think he said?" I ask cautiously.

"What did Katniss say to you?" she demands in turn.

I smile sadly at this. "She wanted me to let her die." It's my turn to ask a question. "Did Eight know Thirteen was preparing an uprising?"

Her shoulders droop and I can read her answer in the grief in her eyes.

I nod. "It's interesting how all the districts went first, died first, before Thirteen, who had all the weapons and equipment, and no Peacekeeping troops in place, stepped in." I watch her from under my lashes. "Do you believe Coin was the leader to succeed Snow?"

Paylor sighs heavily and rubs at her temples. "That's not my call to make. And it isn't Katniss' either. Certainly not executing her without a trial or jury. That isn't justice, that's murder. Don't lie to yourself, Peeta. That was nothing short of cold-blooded killing."

I nod, because she's right. "I don't deny it. But what if she saved lives with it? What if she avenged the children from the City Circle? What if she prevented another Hunger Games with Capitol children?"

Paylor's face grows harder with each scenario, but at the last she breaks, slumping heavily into a hard-backed chair.

"No," she whispers harshly. "Not that."

"You've suspected for a while now, haven't you? About the parachutes." I watch the despair cloud her face. She is thinking the same thing I did. How we helped get Coin exactly what she wanted.

She nods slowly. "I couldn't believe it, didn't want to believe it," her voice is ragged. "But it just didn't make sense that it was Snow. He couldn't have had a hovercraft, he just couldn't." She looks up at me, her heart broken. "I made it easier for her."

I shake my head, one hand reaching for the clenched fist trembling at her temple. "We were all fooled," I say gently. "We wanted it to be real so badly. But now it is. The people are free and we can rebuild, we can heal. We can forgive."

She watches me with haunted eyes. Her hands tremble and she looks close to tears. But then her gaze hardens. She takes a deep, shaky breath and stands, squaring her shoulders. She nods briskly, shaking off the sorrow that almost claimed her. I watch her admiringly as she steels herself to do what must be done.

"I'm sorry, Peeta," she says gruffly. "There will have to be a trial. No matter the reason, Katniss assassinated the President of the nation. And we can't tell them about the parachutes, or the – the Games. The people are too delicate right now, trust is too tenuous. To destroy Coin this way will throw the country into a frenzy of paranoia. I can't think of any way around it."

I nod. I agree with her, and more than that, I saw Katniss' eyes when I stopped her from swallowing the nightlock. I know all too well the state of mind she's in right now.

"Let there be a trial. The country knows what she's been through," I say. "The districts love her, and the population of the Capitol had no ties to Coin. No one will argue against a sentence of treatment and recovery. She's sacrificed everything for this nation. Let them give her this in repayment."

Paylor's eyes are distant, she's working it out in her head, seeing the arguments for and against, balancing justice with fairness. Her strong fingers fiddle with the carabiner at her belt, flicking and bouncing it as she weighs her options. And then her fingers still.

"You shouldn't testify," she says abruptly. "Everyone knows you're in love with her, it will only damage the credibility of the testimony."

Mutely, I nod agreement, my words frozen on my tongue as my face flushes crimson and my heart bangs against my ribs. After standing silently for a moment, nodding like an idiot, I murmur a cracked thank you and turn and make my way out, back into the crush and panic of the hall, certain I can hear Paylor's snort of laughter behind me.

The winter months drag on endlessly. Katniss' trial is a relatively quick affair, most of the nation wanting to move past the ugliness and forget it ever happened, to get started on their shiny new nation. Plutarch speaks in her defense, telling the story of how she was used without her knowledge, how she helped to bring down Snow's dreadful reign with her bravery and determination against terrible odds, how she cracked under the strain. Dr. Aurelius contributes a picture of such agonized grief, such unbearable pressure, that she comes off like a complete lunatic and he mostly wins her free on a pity vote, televised for all the nation to see.

Paylor is elected in a landslide in an emergency election, mostly due to Haymitch. Though he is drunk most of the time, and wracked with guilt, the nation loves him. He campaigns tirelessly, throwing his grumpy, hard-edged support behind her whole-heartedly and they eat it up. She runs on a platform of unity, and her first acts of office are to build a cabinet that equally represents both the Districts and the Capitol. The nation is besotted.

My own time is spent trying to help Katniss heal. Trying to guide her back from the world of darkness and hopelessness where she's been abandoned. I work with Aurelius, his knowledge of healing and my knowledge of Katniss blending together to help her recover. Giving her the time she needs to mourn, to rage, to ache. Time she has never been given, having been expected to be a leader, to be strong, to be visible at all times.

My heart breaks for her. When she starves herself, we up her morphling so she'll eat when hungry. When she begins to rely on the drug, we slowly cut the dosage back. And when her misery and pain are too much to bear, we play music while she sleeps. Songs from home, songs she would have sung with her father. And one day, sitting at the window, staring blindly out over the city, she begins to sing. Her voice, scratchy and broken, falters over the high notes, wobbles on certain phrases, but soon, amazingly soon, swells into something magnificent. Aurelius and I listen, transfixed, as her voice fills the room, golden and round, sparkling and sweet, an agony of beauty.

She sings for hours, for days. It's as if she's calling herself back into being. Finding the new person she's become when the person she was could no longer bear it. I watch as she recreates herself, building a core that will be able to live in the world as it is now. As the person that she is now. She may not know it yet, but she has survived this.

Every day is a battle against going to her. But I have known Katniss long enough to understand how she thinks. I can't add to the burden of blame she thinks she bears. At night, I stay close, sometimes in the hallway outside her room, hoping she can feel my presence the same way I can feel hers. Hoping she can find her way back to me.

Part of her release was dependent on her being sent away, not being set up as a revered hero in the city. Little did the jury know what a gift this was. Aurelius wants to send her to Eight, thinking she needs to be away from any reminders of her grief to continue to heal. I disagree. I think she will never forget, no matter what her surroundings are. She needs to be where she can remember herself, needs to be able to remember when she made herself strong, and eventually, when she's ready, to remember her family in happier times.

I send Greasy Sae to prepare her house for her, back in Twelve. She agrees eagerly to watch over Katniss when she comes home and I'm grateful. I'm equally glad when Haymitch volunteers to go, too. He has been rattling around the Capitol like a displaced ghost. Everything stirs horrible memories for him and he looks forward to leaving it all behind. They have always been a perfect fit for each other. I'm happy he'll be there for her.

Aurelius doesn't want me to go yet. I tell him I'm ready, but my stance is substantially weakened when I collapse in the middle of my argument from pure exhaustion. I sleep for two days straight, dreamless and still.

When I wake, I go out into the city. President Paylor is working hard to unite the country, and the effects can already start to be seen. Just as spring is beginning to wake the earth from its long, dark winter, the nation is coming to life again as well. Markets line the streets, using the fancy shop fronts as shelters. Merchants from all corners of the districts have travelled to set up tents and booths and there is a sense of a fair in the atmosphere. I barter a sketch of a stationer's daughter for a set of pencils and a hand-bound journal, my hands trembling slightly as I caress the clean, blank pages waiting for me.

I help to clear the city of wreckage, help families clean up the debris from their homes so they can live in them again. I work in the soup kitchens feeding the displaced and homeless. Every day I grow stronger as I'm able to see families rebuild, citizens find their way, people begin to heal.

Paylor has me visiting veterans from both sides in the hospital. I listen to their stories, and I share mine with them, and we help each other to get stronger. One woman is visiting her husband with their one-year old baby and she lets me hold her. They have named her Katniss. I bounce her gently as she grins and burbles, reaching for my cheeks with her chubby little fingers. The need to be with my Katniss overwhelms me with a great, swelling joy rising from my chest and spreading over my skin in tingling waves as I hold this tiny bundle of hope in my arms.

That night, my heart banging against my ribs, I fidget restlessly as the hovercraft slowly descends and sets down in the meadow next to the fence. I'm home. I want to run to her, go to her immediately and sweep her close in my arms. But Haymitch and Greasy Sae have been reporting that she is still locked in depression, overwhelmed with grief. So I let myself into my own house, dark and cold across the green. Katniss' house is lit in the kitchen, warmth radiating through the window and I send a silent thank you to Greasy Sae. Haymitch's house, on the other hand, is almost as black and silent as mine, only the upstairs bedroom lamp is on. I consider going to check on him, but chances are he's so drunk he wouldn't even notice, so I decide to wait until tomorrow. I need to sleep tonight, I have to be up early.

I sleep heavily, the closeness to Katniss wrapping me like a warm blanket after almost two weeks apart. When I wake, the cold dawn is just breaking over the hills behind the trees. I make a quick breakfast of a cup of tea and a stale roll I brought with me, I'll have to restock the kitchen quickly. Then, wrapping myself in my warm coat against the chill, I grab a spade and wheelbarrow from the shed behind the house and make my way outside onto the path that winds down toward town. Katniss' kitchen is again warm and bright, smoke rising from the chimney and I smile to myself.

My feet find the familiar path readily and I wind across the short distance to town, just starting to wake in the morning light. People are coming out to begin the day's work of reclaiming the town from the ash, uncovering the dead and preparing them to be laid to rest. Just like in the city, the work of healing is beginning. Moving a little quicker, I make a promise to come help as soon as I've finished the task at hand.

Crossing the Seam, I pull a tangle of downed wire out of my way and push through a snarl of roots. I pull a deep breath of the clean, cold air and drink in the tall, green trees, the bright, quick birdsong and the chatter of life all around me. How I've missed this place. As the light grows, I find the spot I used to come to paint, before the tour. I shake my head to think of how frightened I used to be of the woods, and of how I began to love it here after the first Games, even though I can't move through it without crashing around like a wounded hyena, apparently.

There, just as I remembered, across from my clearing, is a low bramble of scraggly bushes. I grab the spade from the cart and quickly set to work, digging up the roots, careful not to harm them. Uri had an amazing green thumb. He'd let me help transplant my mother's lilies in the spring and taught me well. I think five will be enough.

I load my prizes into the wheelbarrow and head back, my heart full. As I walk, I remember her, such a bright and happy little thing. She was sheltered from tragedy by her sister and able to smile quickly, laugh lightly. I think of how she would gently tease me about my cowardice with my feelings toward her sister, and her sympathy about it. She was a healer, like her mother and sister, but born out of compassion and a desire to help. She was gifted with kindness.

Back at the Victor's Village, I survey the house carefully. I think under the side windows, where she used to sit to read. The sun will coax the blooms soon. I roll back my sleeves and start to dig.

I've just finished turning the earth when I hear a thumping from inside, and the door swings open. I turn just as she rounds the corner and we both freeze, shocked by the sight of the other.

Her eyes are wild, her hair straggling in ragged clumps from a ruined braid. She wears the same clothes she left the Capitol in. My heart aches for her.

"You're back," she says, inconsequentially.

I shrug apologetically. "Dr. Aurelius wouldn't let me leave the Capitol until yesterday," I tell her. "By the way, he said to tell you he can't keep pretending he's treating you forever. You have to pick up the phone." From the look of her, it's more important than either of us had thought.

She lifts an unsteady hand and pushes at a knotted snarl over her eyes, asking suspiciously, "What are you doing?"

I gesture to the wheelbarrow where the five primrose bushes wait to be planted. "I went to the woods this morning and dug these up. For her." My voice cracks as I confront the full measure of her grief. I was wrong. I have left her alone too long. "I thought we could plant them along the side of the house," I offer gently.

At first, rage clouds her eyes, but then, a mix of sadness and relief washes over her features and she sags mournfully. She nods mutely and hurries back inside the house. I hear the door shut and the lock click into place.

I turn back to my work, gently carrying the delicate plants to their places and tenderly patting the earth around them. Planting them deep so their roots can take hold, so the sun can warm them and the promise of spring can wake them from their winter freeze.


	35. Chapter 35

I am home. Warm spring days and bright, clean sunlight are an antiseptic washing clean the dark, ashy past from the promise of the future. More people arrive all the time because, after everything, we still call District Twelve home. More hands to help scrub and build, more hearts to help ease suffering.

Gale's friend Thom has become a de facto leader, assigning jobs and making sure everyone is cared for and included. He calls a town meeting and we gather together, everyone bringing a dish to share, and we tell stories about the ones we lost, sharing our grief and collectively putting them to rest. We have a discussion about our future and decide we're finished with mining, we'd like to build a factory where we'll make medicines. Paylor sends us giant construction equipment and we have a ground-breaking celebration as the machines tear into the earth, digging through the past and making way for the future.

I help develop a community garden, plowing the ash into the ground and planting crops instead. I love the feel of the dirt under my hands. The cold, crumbly darkness yielding up bright, strong vegetables and sturdy, healthy vines and stems.

I spend weeks cleaning and clearing out, rebuilding the bakery. Lef has come to live with us, having lost his family in Thirteen, and he makes an excellent apprentice. His new girlfriend Willa, a girl who was a few years ahead of me in school, tells me she'd always wanted to work with my father and she proves to have a deft hand and creative eye. Sooner than I'd have imagined, the business has become a thriving part of the town.

Haymitch is slowly thawing as well. A few days after I arrived, he emerged from his house, blearily stepping out into the sun, having drunk all his liquor. He and I walked to town together and Thom agreed to give him a bottle if he would first help with the digging they were doing in the meadow, a mass memorial with all the bones they'd been uncovering in town. Haymitch grumbled and moaned, but set to work quickly and reverently. He came every day after that until the memorial was finished, and would often visit it in days to come.

He and I get together every night, usually after dinner, and play cards or just talk. Lef often joins us and occasionally Thom. Haymitch pretends to hate the company, but never misses it. He complains he doesn't have a job anymore and, thanks to becoming a victor so young and spending most of his life as a mentor, has no marketable skills. We spend a raucous evening brainstorming potential jobs for him and he is variably offended, angry, or horrified. Until Lef jokingly suggests he needs someone to raise geese so he can make pâté, since I won't buy the disgusting liver glop. Haymitch's eyes light up and he pounces on the idea, enthralled. Even after rounds of hilarious ridicule from the rest of us, he remains steadfast. The next week, from a train bringing deliveries, he unloads a large pen filled with squawking, honking, frantic geese and proudly carts them away to the meadow where he can be found most days watching over them paternally from a drunken recline on the soft swell of grass under a spreading elm.

President Paylor is making rounds of the districts, celebrating growth and offering support where it seems to be needed. Her visit to Twelve is a festival affair as she brings the first of the many shipments of materials for the factory, and a brace of pharmacists to assist with production. Our tiny community is beginning to thrive.

Katniss has a long road to recovery. I do what I can to help, remembering how hard it was to fight my way back to finding myself after everything I was had been stripped from me. At first, I only see her in the mornings, bringing a fresh loaf of bread or some warm cheese buns when Greasy Sae arrives to make breakfast. I try to coax her into conversation, how did she sleep, her plans for the day. I start to bring her requests from town, things people are asking for her help with. At first she refuses the requests, but soon, she relents. The more she is able to be useful, to be around people, the more she emerges from her shell of mourning.

She spends a lot of time in the woods. She says she's hunting, but she comes back as often as not with an empty game bag. The color begins to return to her cheeks and she stands tall again, her eyes begin to clear. I ask her one day if I can come with her, and she eyes me skeptically before agreeing, on the condition that I stay still when she tells me to. Delighted by the spark in her eyes, I grin and promise to move like a shadow in the night. She snorts and shakes her head doubtfully.

The next day we meet in the late morning, after I have things up and running at the bakery. She wears her father's old hunting jacket and her hair is pulled back in an efficient braid down her back. I stop, breathless, as I drink in the sight of her. Straight and tall, her gray gaze is steady and clear, her cheeks a little flushed with the brisk morning breeze.

"Ready?" she asks, eager to be going.

"Ready," I reply, fighting to keep my voice steady. "Did you sleep well?"

She shrugs noncommittally. "As well as ever. Let's start by checking the snares. Greasy Sae is asking for some rabbits today."

We move through the woods in the dappling morning light, birds singing a warning at our approach and the occasional scuffle of a small animal through the brush. She keeps looking back at me as we go and I worry I'm aggravating her by making too much noise. Finally, she stops and turns to me.

"I can barely hear you," she says curiously. "Where did you learn to move so quietly?"

I grin at her, absurdly proud of the compliment. "Must be the new leg," I say, pulling up my pants to show her. She smiles back and runs a finger along the realistic flesh.

"Nice. They must have set it to 'silent mode.' Come on, it's just ahead."

We spend the most part of the day collecting from and resetting the snares, though she does take a large, surprised wild turkey. While she quickly dresses it, I gather greens and berries from the heavily laden bushes near the stream. When we head back, we are late and gratifyingly tired.

In her kitchen, as Greasy Sae exclaims over the haul, Katniss looks the most relaxed I've seen her in ages. She asks me to stay for dinner and I agree happily, contributing a batch of butter rolls and a salad with the fresh greens and some vegetables from the garden.

Over dinner, Katniss tells me about the idea she's had.

"It's like the plant book," she says, her eyes shy. "Only, I want to remember the people we've lost. The details and memories I don't want to forget."

"I love it," I say softly. "It's perfect."

"Will you do the pictures?" she requests. "Most of the time I don't have a photograph."

"Of course," I reply, touched that she'd ask. "I'd love to help. It's a fantastic idea, Katniss. Thanks for including me."

She blushes and nods, not meeting my eyes.

Haymitch comes over after dinner and we tell him the plan for the book. He loves it and asks if he can contribute as well. We stay up late into the night making plans and sharing memories and stories of the people we miss. Finally, Haymitch yawns hugely and stretches his arms over his head, his shirt pulling up over his belly. He says good-night and we watch out the door to see that he makes it across the green and inside alright.

Katniss is ready for bed as well and I tell her to go on upstairs, I'll get the dishes and let myself out. She sleepily agrees and thanks me as she stumbles blearily up the steps to her room. In the kitchen, I clear up and wash the dinner plates, setting them to dry in the rack by the sink. On a whim, I whip up a pan of cinnamon rolls to rise for the morning.

As I'm finishing up, a strangled scream from upstairs chills my blood. I sprint up the stairs and burst through the door to Katniss' room where she's thrashing and crying out. But she's alone, the horror she fights is only visible to her, haunting her in her sleep. Calling her name, I sit on the edge of the bed, stroking her back and her hair, whispering calming nonsense and murmuring for her to wake. She leaps up in the bed, eyes wild and lips quivering, then flings her arms around my neck, clinging to me and shivering as she whimpers.

I hold her, whispering into her hair and stroking her back while she trembles, until she finally pulls a few shaky, gasping breaths and unclenches her fists from my shirt. I lay her back on the pillow and run a hand over her braid, pulling the blanket back up around her. But as I stand to leave, she grips my hand.

"Peeta," her voice is a whisper. "Please. Please will you stay with me?"

I stand next to the bed, memories flooding over me. Now, as then, I really don't have a choice. She needs me. "Always," I whisper back, and she holds the blanket up for me to slide in next to her. I slip an arm under her and she wraps her arms around me, her head pillowed on my chest and a leg thrown over mine. I hold her tight against my heart, and we face the night together.

After that, we spend every night together, wrapped safely in each other's arms and pulling strength to fight the terrors of the dark together. Katniss is blooming back to herself, now that she actually rests and is able to finally recover. Her smile reemerges and when something funny happens, it's me her sparkling gaze flies to, eager to share the moment. Or when a terrible memory overwhelms her, it's my arms where she seeks comfort. One bright morning, walking into town together, it's as natural as breathing when she slips her hand into mine as we walk. My heart is full and I grin stupidly at the puffy clouds in the dazzling blue sky.

We measure time by events of growth and healing. When the Justice Building reopened with an elected mayor and appointed security force. How many bushels of sweet peas the garden yielded. How everyone joined together to raise storefronts on the new merchant street. When the factory produced its first shipment of "Fireball" burn cream for delivery.

Katniss begrudgingly agrees to let me paint her and we set up in the woods, on the rock where she used to wait for Gale to join her. As I sketch a quick outline, Gale seems to haunt us. She tells me how they met and became friends. Talks about how they seemed two halves of the same person as they hunted together, with the threat of discovery hanging over them all the while. Her eyes are distant and sad as she tells the story and I notice she is running her fingers over a slight bump beneath her collar. I recognize the outline and the chain and my stomach drops, a hollow ache in my chest that I do my best to keep from showing on my face.

But her sharp gray eyes don't miss the catch in my breathing, the slight freeze of my hand in its quick lines. A tiny smile pulls at the corner of her lips as she slides down off the rock and moves toward me, pulling the locket from under her shirt. She stops only a breath away from me.

"This was delivered to my house when I came back," she says, holding it out so the mockingjay glints in the sun. I touch it with a delicate finger.

"I'm glad you still have it," I say, wanting to be pleased she has this reminder of the people who are so important to her.

"Me too," she says. "I like being able to see the people who mean so much to me, even when they aren't here with me."

Her clear gray eyes hold mine as she slides a finger over the hidden catch and the leaves pop open, revealing the photographs inside. Prim, her mother, and – not Gale? My eyes flash up to hers, and find them lit with tenderness.

"It was kind of crooked after all it went through," she tells me, her fingers twining through mine. "I pulled it free and found yours underneath. It was there the whole time." In her eyes I can see that she feels it, too. The tether that connects us, one to the other, across time and distance. "You must have loved me a lot," she whispers.

I take her face in my hands and bend to her mouth. Her lips meet mine with a sweet urgency that echoes my own. The familiar hunger wakes deep in my belly, the need for her consuming me, the heady joy of certainty like fitted pieces locking together in place. Her hands grip my collar, pulling me closer as she presses against me, and I wrap my arms around her waist, holding her tight and close until, breathless, I slide my mouth along her jaw and kiss her ear, her hair, coming to rest with her head tucked under my chin and our bodies twined together so tightly we could be mistaken for one and I can feel her cheek raised in a smile against my collarbone.

A few nights later the whisper claims me in my sleep. The fiery-winged demon shrieks through my mind, blazing her fury in flaming arrows that kindle the newly built homes and freshly repaired shops. The residents of Twelve again run screaming and burning as she hurls destruction around us. My family is still here, still burning, still calling for me to help them, but I'm chained to the stocks in the square and Snow's whip cracks across my skin while I fight to get to my mother, my brother.

Katniss' voice pulls me from the dream.

"Peeta, it's not real! It's not real, Peeta, come back to me. It's not real."

I wake with an aching groan and pull her close, burying my face in her neck as she wraps her arms around me, clenching handfuls of my shirt and gripping me tightly while I try and shake off the dream. My hands in her hair, I search for her mouth in the dark and she breathlessly kisses away the horror of the nightmare. Shuddering, I pull her closer, needing her to be closer. Ravenously, I claim her lips with mine, and she answers my craving with an insatiable hunger of her own. A tingling, buzzing joy blazes through my veins, burning the darkness away as it races over my skin, igniting at her touch.

After, when she lies wrapped in my arms, her heart beating against mine, I smile into the dark and whisper the question I already know the answer to. "You love me. Real or not real?"

And she tips her head up so her lips brush mine, her answer a kiss. "Real."

THE END


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